Battle Cry
by Crystal Sampson
Summary: It's supposed to be a witch. It's supposed to be easy. Sam and Dean shouldn't have to do more than help burn the body. But, when Sam and Dean are faced with an unknown monster, the consequences will be life-altering for all the Winchesters. Will they be able to fix the problem, or will Sam have to learn to adapt to the newest challenge in his life? K because it's Dean.
1. The Hunt

_Disclaimer: Not mine. If you recognize it, it doesn't belong to me. It belongs to Kripke et. al. I just borrowed for a minute._

Note: Okay guys, I'm starting a new story. I'm going to try my best to get this done in about a month. Updates should be fairly regular, but bear with me. I'm at school right now and things are a little crazy.

* * *

Sam leaned forward in his seat as Dean collected the last few necessities into the spare duffle. John had left them ten minutes ago with strict orders on when to follow. Sam had been trying to quell the uneasy feeling in his gut for that entire time. As Dean was climbing out of the driver seat, Sam finally spoke up.

"I don't like this hunt. Something doesn't add up."

Dean shouldered his bag and slammed the car door. Sam scrambled to keep up with him.

"Quit whining. You're just mad 'cause Dad made you come with us instead of leaving you with your textbooks. You need to get your head in the game and stop worrying about your reading."

"It's math.," Sam huffed. "The test tomorrow is a third of my grade this term."

"Whatever, dork," Dean said as he stuffed a few odds and ends into the duffle bag.

"I'm serious though," Sam said. "Something doesn't seem right. The last victim doesn't line up with the pattern."

Dean shrugged. "So the witch got bored. What's new? It's not like they make a lot of sense to begin with."

"But-"

"Enough, Sam. Dad says it's a witch. It's a witch."

"Right. Because Dad can't be wrong."

"Don't," Dean said, turning away from Sam. His shoulders were tense and Sam could tell his brother was trying to take calm, even breaths.

"Don't what?" Sam demanded. He knew he might push Dean too far, but his brother's blind faith in John's leadership was troubling. "Don't tell the truth?"

"I'm not getting in the middle of this again. Dad did the research. He wouldn't be sending us in if he weren't sure. We have a job to do, so let's do it."

"It's not a witch," Sam said as Dean started walking towards the tree line. "We should-"

"Sam!" Dean snapped, spinning on his heel. Sam froze. "I said enough. We're going to do this tonight, whether you want to or not. Dad is counting on us to have his back. Now man up, arm up, and start marching."

Sam's mouth snapped shut on the reply he was about to make. Dean was pissed and wouldn't listen anyway. And he was right. Dad was already out there about to face who knew what. Sam palmed some holy water and checked that his silver knife was tucked securely into his boot, and slid the pistol with the consecrated rounds into his waistband before setting out. He didn't know what was out there, but he was fairly certain it wasn't a witch – or not just a witch – and he was going to be prepared for anything that could come at him. If Dean wouldn't take him seriously, he'd just have to make sure he was the one doing the protecting tonight.

When he reached Dean, a sawed off was shoved into his hands and they set off into the woods.

They got a few feet in before Dean stopped them. "Did you hear that?"

Sam froze and listened intently. There to the right. A shuffling of leaves and a twig broke.

"I think it's just an animal. Probably a possum."

Dean listened for a minute then nodded. "Too small to be a person."

Sam eyed his brother. "You okay man? You're not usually that jumpy."

Dean shrugged and started walking. "I hate witches."

They walked for fifteen minutes before they came up on the south side of the clearing. Across from them, cast into deep shadow in the moonlight, stood the mouth of a cave. It was tall and narrow. It would be a squeeze for even Sam. Dean would have to squirm his way in with his stockier build.

"That's it," Dean whispered in Sam's ear.

Sam refrained from rolling his eyes. It's not like there were any other caves in the general vicinity. "Has it been long enough? Should we go in?"

"Dad said twenty minutes." Dean checked his watch, moonlight glinting off the plastic face. "It's been sixteen."

Sam strained his ears, hoping to hear some indication of how things were going in the cave, but all was quiet. He caught Dean's eye. Dean nodded. It was too quiet. Four minutes or not, they were going in.

Dean held his gun in his right hand and steadied it with his left. He pushed his way into the clearing through the bushes. Sam followed as quietly as he could. They reached the entrance of the cave and Dean motioned for Sam to follow close as he turned to squeeze himself through the crack.

Sam was standing behind Dean, waiting for his turn to enter when there was a high, shrill scream and he found himself shoved to the ground, serving as Dean's unceremonious pillow.

Dean cursed and shot up, Sam jumping to his feet right behind him. He scanned the area, shotgun loaded and ready. It was Dean's cussing that made him look back.

There, on the ground, not ten feet from Dean was a small creature. It had short, spindly legs that sprouted like spider legs from a furred torso that was maybe a foot long. Its head swayed side to side on a long, sinuous neck. It had black beetle eyes and a long snout that ended in a sucker mouth. Under any other circumstances, it would have been funny. In the dark of the woods, with only the moonlight to see by, it made Sam's heart race.

Sam gaped at it for a whole second before he registered that it was moving right for them. Fast.

Sam and Dean reacted simultaneously, aiming their guns and firing. It dodged both shots and let out the same horrific wail that it had before, raising the hackles on Sam's neck.

Then it was on top of them. It launched itself from the ground at Dean and landed, latching onto his arm. Dean pulled his knife and made to swipe at it, but it was already gone, clinging to the front of Sam's shirt.

Sam was momentarily stunned at the thing's speed, but it seemed primarily interested in climbing up his front.

"Sam, fall!"

Sam closed his eyes and let himself pitch forward, hoping to crush the creature under his weight. But the thing was too fast. It had skirted around him and up to his neck before he could land. He felt it tickling the back of his head and he flipped, but instead of dislodging, the thing skittered around to his face. He found himself eye to eye with the creature.

Sam tried to swat it away from his face, but it was too fast. It moved around him as he rolled. The one time he did manage to swipe at it with his knife, it was fastened on so tight, he couldn't displace it at all.

Sam registered the fact that the creature had sunk some sort of talons from the ends of its feet into his chest at the same moment the sucker-like mouth closed over his own.

Sam tried to yell, but it felt like all the air was being sucked from his lungs. He thrashed as hard as he could, but the thing was stuck fast.

"Sam! Hold still!"

Sam froze. There was a deafening shot and the talons ripped free from his chest. He would have screamed, but his lungs were too busy sucking in fresh, cool air. He heard a grunt by his ear as the creature curled in on itself. It had fallen to the side and was squirming and twitching, not quite dead.

Dean took aim again. Sam flung himself away from it as the creature let out another cry, this time much deeper. The cry was cut off by the rapport of the gun. When Sam glanced back, he saw the shattered remains of the creature splattered across the bare ground.

He let himself collapse back onto the dirt, gasping for air.

Dean walked over and examined the thing. He kicked some dirt at it. When he was satisfied it was dead, he stepped over to Sam, offering him a hand.

"You good?"

Sam nodded. He was about to ask if they should try the cave again when there was a crash through the brush and John burst through into the clearing looking slightly panicked.

"What the hell is going on over here? Where have you two been? I thought I heard someone screaming." He caught sight of the thing in the grass and grunted. "What is that?"

"Dunno," Dean said. "We were about to go in the cave when it came charging out. It attacked Sammy and I shot it."

"What?" He turned to Sam. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," Sam tried to say. The word caught in his throat and he choked so badly he found himself gasping for air. Dean reached over and smacked his back.

"Dude, breathe." Turning to John he said, "Thing had this sucker mouth and was making out with Sammy. It was damn fast too."

Sam had gotten himself under control enough to glare at Dean, who ignored him. Instead he asked, "The witch?"

"Roasted." John said. "Finished her and got her burning then came to look for you two."

"Apparently we got the wrong cave."

John eyed the narrow entrance. "Let's take this one and throw it on the fire too. Don't want to leave anything laying around. We can come back and do a sweep for more after we do some research on them. I don't like going in there with that narrow opening without knowing what we're dealing with."

Sam stepped forward to volunteer, knowing he was the mostly likely to fit through, but the minute he took a breath to speak, he fell into another coughing fit.

"Dude, seriously." Dean said, arched brow. "Maybe you shouldn't talk."

Sam glared at him, but nodded. He pointed at himself, then at the cave. John eyed him for a minute then shook his head. "Not tonight. Not with you not at your peak. I don't want you going in and getting stuck. Plus, it's getting late. We need to get this cleaned up before some curious hiker comes along."

John walked closer to the thing and shrugged off his flannel shirt, which had been all but shredded at some point. Sam scanned him closely, but there wasn't much blood, and none of it seemed to be his. John threw the shirt over the mess and gathered as much of it as he could into the fabric, trying not to touch it.

"You boys hide the rest and come meet me. I'm about a hundred yards over along the cliff face." Dean and Sam nodded.

Dean produced a pocket trowel from his jeans and began turning under the soil now stained black from the creature's blood. Sam set to work smoothing out the signs of the scuffle and collected the bullet from Dean's shot, which he buried under a bush. Sam stamped the dirt down so it was less obvious that anything had been disturbed. Both boys rose and set out to meet John.

They stayed until everything was ash. Sam watched as the grey pile eddied and swirled with the slight draft in the cave. Finally, John was ready to leave. Sam glanced at his watch and barely repressed a groan. It was just after three in the morning and it would take them another hour to get back to the hotel. That would give him about an hour and a half of sleep before he had to be up and walking to the bus stop for school.

It was going to be a long day.


	2. The Discovery

In fact, after the drive and a shower plus the ten minutes to bandage up the punctures from the creature – they had gone deep, but were slender and had missed everything of importance- it was closer to five than four when Sam was finally able to sit down. He didn't intend to fall asleep. He knew if he tried to nap he would crash and miss his bus. Instead, he settled himself at the tiny table to cram what he could into his skull for this math test while John and Dean collapsed into their beds. It wouldn't be the first time he'd pulled an all-nighter before a big test. He tried to ignore the soft snores coming from Dean as he pulled the textbook in front of him.

It came as some surprise, therefore, when he jerked awake and found himself falling out of his chair, yellow sunlight in his eyes and something wet in his ear. It took a second for him to process Dean standing over him, shit eating grin in place mollified a bit by a look of concern, probably because he had just slammed his skull into the wall.

He sat up, rubbing his sore head. "What the fuck," Sam demanded. Or tried. The only thing that came out was a hiss of air, sort of a hoarse, unintelligible whisper.

Dean's grin slipped a little. "Cat got your tongue?"

Sam tried to clear his throat before he snapped at his brother. "Not funny, Dean."

It was the same odd huffing of air, but no sound. He frowned. "Dean."

"Sam?" Dean said leaning down over Sam's upended chair. "That's not funny."

Sam looked up at him, panicked. "Dean," he tried to say. "Dean!"

Dean kicked the chair out of the way and knelt in front of him. Grabbing Sam by the shoulders, he shook him gently. "Sam! Stop. Just stop."

Sam was shaking.

"Dad!" Dean called over his shoulder. "Dad, something's wrong with Sam."

John stuck his head around the bathroom door. "What?" He took in the scene with a frown. "What's wrong?"

"I don't know. Sammy can't talk."

John met Sam's eye. "Sammy?"

"Dad." The word came out as a hitched breath.

John's frowned deepened. "Now's not the time to be playing games."

Sam was on the verge of tears. He shook his head violently.

"I don't think he is, Dad. Look at him. He's in a panic."

John studied him. "When did this start?"

Sam opened his mouth to reply but realized that he couldn't, nor did he really know the answer. Dean thought for a moment. Then he paled. "Last night. Remember?" He turned towards John. "After that thing attacked him, he kept trying to talk, but he kept coughing. I thought he just irritated his throat, but he hasn't made a noise since."

John nodded. "Okay. Dean, get your brother into the car," he said. As if Sam weren't fifteen years old and perfectly capable of walking. "We're taking him to the hospital just in case. On the way, both of you try to write down everything you remember. I'll call around and see if anyone knows what we're dealing with."

The hospital was actually the next town over. It was a forty minute drive, even the way John Winchester drove. Sam spent the first ten minutes doing as his father had asked and making a sort of entry of the attack. He'd written down as much as he could remember and was absently sketching it when John pulled into a space near the emergency room.

As they settled in to wait, apparently sudden muteness did not warrant immediate attention, John read over their reports. Sam was left to twiddle his thumbs in the seat. He could tell his dad was already working through the logistics of the case, but Sam was more worried about the here and now.

Dean came back from wherever he had disappeared to carrying two bottles of coke. He handed one over as he plopped down into the chair next to Sam. Sam took it and twisted the top off, but didn't take a drink. He just stared down into the bottle.

Dean nudged his shoulder. "You know that tastes better than it looks."

Sam glanced up at him, then took a swift sip before recapping it. He absently turned the loose plastic ring that the top had been sealed to. Around and around and around. There was a rough bit hanging from it that caught on the seam in the bottle as it turned.

"Dude, stop. That's annoying."

Sam let his hand drop into his lap. Dean sighed. "C'mon Sam. It's going to be fine. We'll figure this out."

Sam looked at Dean. What if it wasn't? What if this wasn't the kind of thing that they could fix? What if he was stuck like this?

"Sam, you're emoting again. I've told you before. If you do that enough, your face is going to stick like that."

Sam rolled his eyes and stuck his tongue out at his brother.

"I'm serious. I can feel the angst rolling off you. We haven't even seen the doc yet. Maybe it's a bug or something. Maybe that thing had mono. Yeah, that's probably it. You got mono from making out with a spider monster. Geeze, Sammy. That's impressive, even for us."

Sam punched Dean in the shoulder.

"Hey, I'm just saying. You shouldn't go making out with just anyone. You don't know where those lips have been."

Sam flipped Dean off, with a grin. His good mood lasted for about ten seconds. Then a nurse came into the waiting area and called, "Winchester?"

Sam stood shakily, Dean right behind him. The nurse led them down a long hall and got Sam settled in a room. She eyed Dean. "This is a private area. I'm afraid you can't be back here for the consultation."

Dean smirked. "I'm his brother."

"All the same. I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

Sam shook his head and latched onto Dean's sleeve. "Listen lady," Dean said, smile slipping. "That's my little brother. He's freaked, he wants me here, as you can clearly see, and he's my responsibility. I ain't leaving. Anything you say to him, I'm just going to find out later anyway."

She narrowed her eyes. "I will call security."

"Go ahead," he said, crossing his arms over his chest. "But maybe you should ask Sam what he wants."

The nurse pursed her lips, but looked to Sam. He pulled Dean closer by the sleeve of his jacket. The nurse humphed, but didn't say anything. She flounced from the room and Dean had to snort.

"Wow, someone's on a power trip."

Sam scrunched up his face and shrugged.

"Oh, come on Sammy. We've been to plenty of ER's. No one's ever said anything about me coming back with you before."

Sam shrugged again. It wasn't the first time Dean had had to get firm with a nurse before, either.

They waited for another ten minutes before a doctor finally came in.

"Mister Winchester," he read off the chart. "What seems to be the issue today?"

Sam took a breath to answer, but realized the pointlessness of the action. Dean stepped in smoothly to cover. "Sam woke up this morning and couldn't talk. He seemed fine last night."

The doctor nodded seriously and turned back to Sam. "Any other symptoms? Have you felt dizzy or nauseous? Tired? Does your throat hurt?"

To each of these rapid fire questions, Sam answered with a quick shake of his head. No. He'd been fine up until the cave. He had a sneaking suspicion that whatever this was had to be supernatural, but he figured it couldn't hurt to try the hospital. Sometimes even they got lucky.

"Any recent coughing fits or congestion?"

"Yeah," Dean said. "We were hiking yesterday evening and he started having coughing fits." Right after he'd made out with a giant bug and had all the air sucked out of his lungs. Somehow, Sam didn't think that would enter into the doctor's diagnosis criteria.

"I see. Any history of asthma, hay fever, or any specific allergens?"

"He had asthma for a while, but he's mostly grown out of it. It didn't seem like a normal asthma attack, though. This was sudden and didn't look like he was fighting for air, more like he'd sucked something down the wrong pipe."

Sam nodded quickly at Dean's description. That's what it felt like too, when he tried to talk the night before.

"I see." The doctor made a note then got up. As he was rummaging through one of the drawers he told Sam, "I'm just going to take a quick look at your throat and see what's what."

He pulled out a tongue depressor from the drawer and opened the plastic covering it. As he approached, Sam obediently opened up so that the doctor could see. He seemed to take an interminable amount of time to study the inside of Sam's throat before pulling back.

"Well, I don't see any inflammation. It looks a little red, but not swollen. I'd expect to see a lot worse irritation if it had been an allergy or asthma attack."

Sam realized that the doctor was simply talking to himself, running through the possibilities. He met Dean's gaze, who rolled his eyes at the doctor. "Any idea what it is, doc?"

"I'm going to run a quick test just to cover all our bases. Let's make sure you don't have some variant of strep before we start jumping to conclusions." So saying, he produced a swab and swirled it around in Sam's mouth. When he was finished, he dropped it into a small tube and set it aside. "While we wait for that, perhaps you'd like to take me to your parents?" He said to Dean. "I'd like to speak with them."

Dean eyed the doctor. "Our Dad is in the waiting room, but I can give you any information you need."

"All the same, if you'd like to come point him out to me?"

"I'm not leaving Sam. I already told that nurse."

"I'm not asking you to, I was trying to expedite the process for everyone." Sam caught the meaningful look he gave Dean and had to repress an eye roll himself. Great. Here came the questions about their home life and whether Sam was well adjusted. Apparently his doctor thought he was crazy. It happened every now and then. Between him and Dean, they'd managed to amass a curious collection of injuries that could not be readily explained. It always ended up in the doctor asking discrete questions about recent trauma and coping mechanisms.

Apparently Dean wasn't in the mood for the usual song and dance either. He pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. "Look, doc. I know what you are doing. Sam's fine. He hasn't had any recent trauma. He was perfectly normal till last night. The only thing we did out of the ordinary was a little hiking and a bonfire. No secret childhood trauma. And certainly nothing overly trying. He barely worked up a sweat. We got home late, he fell asleep studying for some test, and woke up like this," Dean gestured towards Sam who was listening as patiently as he could. Although he scowled as he realized he'd missed his test anyway, despite all his efforts.

Dean must have seen his expression. "Dude, seriously? You go mysteriously mute and you want to pull the bitch face because you missed some stupid test? I always knew you were a geek, but that's a little extreme."

Sam flipped his brother off. It was a third of his total grade. He could be upset if he wanted.

Dean shrugged. "Whatever, bitch. Surely someone around here will give you a note. You're teacher will let you make it up. It's not like you skipped. Nerd."

Sam looked hopefully at the doctor, who seemed put off by the exchange. "Right, erm. Yes. We can. Just check in with reception before you leave and someone will print you one off." He seemed to gather a little of his composure. "In the meantime, I really do need to speak with your father."

"Alright," Dean said, hopping up onto the bed next to Sam. Sam elbowed Dean, knowing full well that his brother was being obtuse on purpose. What he didn't count on was the sharp elbow into his side in return. Sam huffed, but otherwise didn't retaliate. There would be time for retribution later, when their father wasn't likely to walk in on them wrestling in public. There was still this morning's antics to avenge as well.

The doctor cleared his throat, but otherwise took the hint and left to go find John.

"That went well," Dean drawled as the door clicked closed.

Sam snorted a little, but didn't try to argue the point.

"Why do they always assume one of us went off the deep end? It's not like we come across as that unstable."

Sam dipped his head and raised his brows, frowning a little in disbelief.

"I'm not having that argument with you again. This is our normal. Just because it's not most people's normal, doesn't make it wrong." Dean held up a finger. "And don't give me that crap about Dad. We've got bigger fish here."

Sam shrugged. Dean did have a point. It's not exactly like this was an unusual occurrence. Okay, so waking up mute was not something that happened every week, but something screwy was bound to happen at least once a month. It wasn't even all that surprising anymore.

They sat in silence while they waited. It was a long five minutes later when they heard John's raised voice in the hall.

"What exactly are you implying here?"

"Uh oh," Dean said, sliding from the edge of the bed. "Doc better watch himself. You ready to go?"

Sam nodded and pushed off from his seat. Dean was gathering his jacket while Sam pulled his own back on.

"Don't you dare insinuate that I can't take care of my children! I've been looking after those boys since their mother died."

John and the doctor had moved close enough to be able to hear the doctor's muffled reply. "Mr. Winchester, I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything of the sort. It's just that sometimes, in emotionally stressful situations, a person, a child in particular, can have any number of coping mechanisms. I'm simply trying to understand what might be going on with Sam."

"Nothing is going on with Sam. He's a healthy teenage boy."

"I'm sorry Mr. Winchester, but something is. There is no medical reason why Sam can't talk. He is perfectly healthy, physically speaking."

"Now you're saying my boy is crazy?"

The boys stood together at the foot of the bed, recognizing the turn in the argument. This happened every time. The doctors didn't find anything and assumed it was psychological. Now John would collect them and they would go figure something else out. Hospitals were really just a formality at this point.

"No!" The doctor was nearly in a panic. "Nothing of the sort."

Cue John in 5.

"That's right. Because Sam is perfectly sane."

4.

"I only meant that there must be more to the issue than the purely physical. Emotional health is important as well."

3.

John's voice was low and menacing. "Then what are you implying?"

2.

"Nothing, Mr. Winchester. Please, just give me a moment to explain…"

1.

"I don't have to listen to this. I'm taking my boys to someone who knows what they're talking about."

John burst into the room. He saw Sam and Dean standing ready and winked at them. "Boys, let's go," he barked. "Dean, get your brother in the car."

"Yes, sir," Dean said, ducking his head so the doctor wouldn't see the laughter in his eyes. Sam just nodded and fell into step next to Dean. They made it out to the Impala without issue.

Sam settled in the backseat when he remembered the note. He leaned back into the seat and closed his eyes. It would be too much trouble now to go back and John was ready to leave. He sighed. Dean, who had elected to sit next to him in the backseat frowned over at him.

"Sam?" Dean said.

Sam just shrugged. It wasn't worth the argument. Next to him Dean sighed as well. John slammed the driver door and started the engine.

"Dad, wait." Dean slid towards the door.

"What is it Dean?"

"I forgot something. It'll take two seconds."

"Hurry. We need to get out of here."

Dean was out the door. Sam stared after him for a moment before John cleared his throat and Sam's attention was back on him. His father had turned around in the seat to look at him.

John seemed nervous, even a little hesitant. "Sam, I know things haven't exactly been easy between us lately, but I need to know. Was the doctor right about any of that? Do you feel like you can't talk to us?"

Sam huffed and shook his head. He rolled his eyes for good measure. He even opened his mouth to tell John that was stupid, but caught himself and snapped it shut before he could. He frown at his knees. This whole not being able to talk thing was annoying. Instead he met his father's eye and shook his head. He might not feel like John Winchester understood or listened to him, but Sam was inclined to shout louder until he made himself heard. Besides, even if he disagreed, Dean always listened to him. He might give him crap all the time, but Dean cared. No, Sam was sure this had to do with the monster the night before.

John nodded back at him. "Good. Right then. We'll figure this out. Bobby's looking into it now."

Sam nodded and they fell into silence as Dean came jogging out the door of the hospital. He ran and yanked open the car door, sliding into the seat next to Sam. He shoved a folded piece of paper into Sam's hands and settled into his own seat.

"We good?"

"Yeah, we're good Dad."

John threw the car in reverse and they were on their way. As they pulled out of the parking lot, Sam unfolded the piece of paper Dean had foisted at him and smiled. It was a doctor's excuse for school. In true Winchester fashion, Sam punched Dean in the shoulder.

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Don't lose it, geek."

Sam folded the note and tucked it into his jacket pocket.


	3. The Problem

Sam and Dean shuffled out of the Impala and into the motel room. Sam settled on the bed with a huff. Dean scooped up the T.V. remote and plopped down next to him, settling back against the headboard. The television flipped on and Sam glanced up to catch the last seconds of a car insurance commercial.

Dean flipped, and flipped, and flipped, cycling through the channels, making pictures flash by. Sam stared at the passing images. He thought they ought to make some sort of story, but they passed too quickly to recognize. Instead, he flopped down backwards across the width of the bed, landing half on and half off of Dean's legs.

Dean kicked in an effort to dislodge him, but he wasn't in the mood to move. Outside, Sam could just hear John talking on the phone, probably to another hunter trying to figure out what they were dealing with. He had pulled the room phone as far as it could go outside and shut the door to get some measure of privacy. The phone cord stretched taught across the floor, threatening to trip the next person to try and cross the room.

Sam ought to be doing research or helping on some way instead of laying like a lump across his brother's bony knees. He was just so tired. He'd barely slept the night before and everything had been moving so fast until this point. He felt his eyelids droop as the TV droned. Dean shifted, but Sam couldn't be bothered to shift to a more comfortable position.

When Sam woke the television was off and the room was dark, except for the glow of the bathroom light. Sam stretched and sat up, realizing that at some point he'd been moved to lay properly in the bed. He could hear someone shuffling in the bathroom.

"Dean?"

Sam let out a frustrated huff. This was getting old and he'd only been like this for a day. They had better find a cure fast. He stood and shuffled towards the light, hoping that if it was Dean, he'd have enough sense to shut the door if he was doing anything…private.

He stuck his head around the door frame and found his father standing in front of the damp mirror, wet hair dripping onto his t-shirt as he shaved. John caught sight of his reflection and turned to face him.

"Hey, tiger. We thought you might sleep all day. Better?"

Sam frowned and took better stock of where he was. He tapped his wrist.

"It's about six o'clock. You slept through lunch."

There were a hundred things he wanted to ask. Why did they let him sleep? Had they found anything? Finally, he settled for mouthing, 'Where's Dean?'

John eyed Sam, deciphering what he had said. He turned back to the mirror and resumed shaving. "He stepped out to get dinner. He'll be back in a minute."

Sam watched John shave for another moment, unsure what to do with himself. He'd like to ask another question, but that was impossible without either John turning around or finding paper to write on. Sam turned and ambled back into the bedroom to turn on the bedside light. He saw his textbook still lying open on the small round table and decided he ought to at least try to study if he had a little extra time.

He collected the book and settled back onto the bed while he waited for John to finish up or Dean to get back. He was startled when not a minute later, the phone began to ring. Sam picked it up and had it to his ear before he realized his mistake. After a moment of silence, he heard Bobby's gruff voice. "Hello? John? You there?"

Sam looked around for something, anything that might help. He spied a pen lying on the nightstand and chucked it at the bathroom door. John stuck his mostly shaven face out. "Sam? What's gotten into you?"

Sam held the phone out and shook it at John. John seemed to get the message and collected the phone from Sam, crossing the room in a few long strides.

"Hello? Singer? Yeah, sorry. Sam picked it up. Yeah he's here. Okay, hold on."

John shifted the phone so that the receiver was against his chest. "Bobby's on the phone." Sam rolled his eyes. He'd surmised that much at least.

"Sam," John said with a tone of warning in his voice. He gave Sam a sharp look, but continued. "He says he has some questions for you. Might have something, might not."

Sam nodded. Please, God let Bobby have found something.

"Alright, Bobby. Go ahead," John said as he sat down next to Sam so he could listen at the receiver as well.

"Okay. Sam there," Bobby asked.

"Yeah, he's here. He's listening too."

"Good. I got a couple of leads, but I need some information to narrow it down. You said it looked like a spider, was it small, like a bug?"

John looked at Sam expectantly. Sam shook his head. It hadn't been small. It had been roughly the size of a terrier. He indicated its height from the floor. "No, Sam says it was bigger. From what I saw it was about two – two and a half feet tall. Skinny legs, but a rounded torso, like a bug."

"Did it have claws that you could see?"

Sam rocked his hand back and forth. "Kinda?" John guessed. Sam frowned. He held up a finger and then dashed to his backpack. "Something got the kid good," John said as Sam rummaged through his things. He pulled out a pencil and a notebook before returning to sit next to John.

 _It didn't look like it at first, but it definitely sank some sort of talon or claw into my chest. About an inch long._

"He says they weren't noticeable at first, but it sank some sort of talon into his chest. They were about an inch long."

"How many per leg?"

Sam held up a single finger.

"Just one."

Bobby got really quiet and they could hear him flipping pages in the background. Sam could feel his shoulders knotting up as he waited for Bobby to continue.

Finally Bobby came back on, sounding reluctant. "Did it make any noises, try to talk or anything?"

Sam had to think back.

 _When we first scared it out of hiding, it was making this high pitched wailing noise, sort of like a baby crying. It made that sound a couple of times. When Dean shot it, it grunted. It never spoke._

"When it first showed it was wailing, like a baby. He says when Dean shot it off him it grunted. But it never spoke. Is that important?"

Bobby was quiet for a long minute. When he finally did speak, he said, "I think I know what it is. Did it have a long neck and a puckered mouth?"

Sam nodded.

"Yeah, that sounds like it."

Bobby cussed. "And you said Dean shot it? Is it still alive?"

"No, it's dead. We burned it, most of it. It was pretty torn up from the gun shots. Why?"

"Dammit! Sounds like it was a reo tahae."

"What's that?"

"It's a voice eater."

"A voice eater? So that really is what's wrong with Sam?" Sam scowled at this remark, but didn't try to argue. He wanted to hear what Bobby had to say.

"They lure people into dark, tight spaces, like caves," Bobby said. "They steal a voice and use it to cry out for help. When the victim walks into their lair, they devour the voice to use the next time before chowing down on other choice bits."

"Choice bits?"

"Apparently they like eyeballs in particular, but I get the sense anything human is pretty tasty to them."

John was silent at that. Sam just felt sick. That thing had been glued to his face, inches from his eyes. He shivered.

"So how do we fix it?"

Bobby was quiet again. "John…"

"Singer."

"There's a ritual, but it's –"

"What is it?"

"It's complicated, but the basics involve the victim eating the tongue of the creature, seasoned with a few choice herbs."

"Any of the creatures?" John asked. Sam could hear the desperation in his voice.

"It's not that simple."

"Dammit Singer, make it that simple."

"I wish I could. Don't you think I would if I could? It has to be the one who ate his voice."

"We could collect the ashes."

"How long have those been sitting there? All day? What's the likelihood they're even still there. Even then, the ritual is pretty specific. The tongue has to be treated with a special oil and herb mixture and eaten raw."

John snatched up the notebook from Sam's lap and plucked the pencil from his limp hand. "Give me the ritual. It's worth a try." John snapped.

Sam felt himself sinking. There was no way that was going to work. Sam knew enough about rituals to know they were exacting. You had to get everything just so, or they wouldn't work, plain and simple.

He vaguely registered his father signing off the phone and flinging the notebook down on the bed before storming back to the bathroom. He was still sitting in the same spot when Dean walked in five minutes later.

He took all of a second to assess Sam when he entered. He threw the food on the table and came to kneel in front of Sam.

"Hey, man. What's wrong?"

Sam just stared at Dean. How was he ever going to talk to him again? He blinked.

"Hello? Earth to Sam." Dean waved his hand in front of Sam's face. Sam batted it away and flopped onto his side facing away from Dean.

"Sam?"

Sam held his resolve for all of five seconds before he rolled back over. Dean must have spotted something in his expression, because his face softened.

"What is it? What happened?"

Sam reached out and grabbed Dean's shirt. Normally he would have respected Dean's no touching policy, but just then he, well he wasn't sure what he really wanted. To just feel connected again.

Dean for his part, didn't draw away. Instead he made Sam scoot over and got on the bed next to him.

"Hey. Hey, it's fine. We'll get through it, man. It's going to be okay."

Sam wondered if Dean realized he'd fallen back onto old habits from when Sam was still small enough to be comforted. A warm hand rubbed circles on his arm and Dean had squashed himself as tight against Sam as he could. It was the same thing he had done when Sam was four and scared of some nightmare. His warmth was soothing and Sam relaxed into the contact.

He refused to cry.

John stalked back out into the room and made directly for the food.

"Dad?" Dean said.

John ignored him.

"Dad, what's going on?"

John growled. "That no good Singer is what happened."

"Bobby? He found something?"

"More like a pot full of nothing. He seems to think there's nothing to be done."

"What?"

"There's a ritual, but he seems pretty sure it won't work. He's going to keep looking, but he didn't sound too hopeful."

"Wait, a ritual?" Dean looked down at Sam who had buried his face in Dean's shirt at his father's words. He could feel Dean's stare on the back of his head. "What kind of ritual. Why wouldn't it work?"

John sighed. "Apparently it's supposed to be done on the freshly harvested tongue of the beast that did this. Seems to think it won't work if we use the ashes."

"We have to try."

"That's what I told him. He gave me the ritual," John said waving his hand at the notebook now laying at the foot of the bed. "Still going to do some digging though. That can't be the only solution."

Dean nodded. "Hear that Sam, we're going to try and Bobby may still find something. Don't give up yet."

Sam simply buried himself deeper into Dean's side. 

* * *

A/N: Reo tahae is roughly Maori for voice eater. If anyone out there actually speaks Maori or knows of a monster that steals voices, please drop me a note. I didn't come up with much in my research, so I made it up. Actually, this story has spawned this year's Nano idea so there that, but Google was a bit sparse in voice stealing monsters.


	4. The Ritual

It was cold. That was the only thing Sam could think about as he stood with his back to the entrance of the cave watching Dean and John argue. The breeze brushed through the low hanging branches outside and chilled the back of his neck. Even his toes felt like lumps of ice.

Neither John nor Dean seemed to feel the cold. They were pressed next to one another attempting to read the scrawled ritual in the dim beam of a flashlight and yelling at each other.

"This says tongue, Dad."

"I know what it says! What do you suggest we do? It's not like we've got some magic wand to tell us which ashes are tongue. Hell, I'm not even sure which ones are witch ashes and which are monster."

Dean eyed the pile, scuffing the edge of it with his boot. "There's too much there for him to eat it all."

Sam pulled his jacket tight against his body as another breeze tickled the back of his exposed neck. He fought off the urge to laugh. Didn't they realize just how hopeless this was? There were too many things that could go wrong. They were working blind out of desperation. That never ended well for anyone.

"I know!" John shouted, shoving the notebook at Dean and staring down at the pile before him.

"Well, we need to figure something out," Dean said.

Sam glimpsed John's face. It was red and angry. This was not going to end well if he didn't step in soon. The last thing he wanted to deal with was Dean and John at each other's throats all night. It didn't happen often, but the resulting hangovers were a pain in the ass.

He pushed off of the rock that he had been leaning against and walked over to them. He held out his hand for the flashlight. Dean looked at him startled, as though he had forgotten all about him, then shrugged and handed Sam the light. He held out the pad as well, but Sam ignored it and moved to survey the ash pile.

They had thrown the body on the back side of the fire, where the flames were still burning the hottest. Assuming the wind hadn't gotten too far into the cave, they should be relatively undisturbed. The one thing the Winchester boys had going for them was the fact that the weather had been relatively calm the last few days. No storms, no howling wind. Things should have stayed fairly undisturbed inside the cave.

Sam shined the flashlight on the area, leaning close to see if he could spot any differences. It took a good minute, but he did see it. Leaning in further, he brought the light close. There was a small pile of ash that was slightly darker than all the rest.

John and Dean had come to stand behind him, watching. He motioned them to lean down, then pointed, first to the pile, then to the surrounding ash. Dean followed the motion of his finger, but shook his head.

"What am I looking at Sam?"

Sam took a deep breath and tried not to huff, afraid he would scatter the delicate piles in front of him. He tapped a finger at the corner of his eye, then pointed to the two different hues again. Dean studied it, but ultimately John was the one to understand first.

"He's showing us that pile. Those ashes are darker just there. Is that where we put this thing?"

Sam straightened and nodded.

"I guess so. Ready to try this thing, Sammy?"

Sam scowled at the nickname but nodded anyway. He really wasn't. The idea of scarfing down oily ashes made bile churn in his stomach and he was almost ninety percent sure this wouldn't work. But he'd seen weirder things happen. He would try anything at this point and as this was the only idea any of them had, this was his only option. He had to know.

John dropped his backpack at his feet and kneeled down to look into it. He handed Dean a zipper bag full of herbs and a bottle of purified linseed oil. He brought out a large wooden bowl and a trowel and set to work gathering ash into the bowl. He set aside the large pieces of talon left and a few shiny pieces of leg carapace that had survived the heat. Satisfied that he had gotten all he could, he straightened up and took the bowl over to a stand of rock.

"Read the ritual out, Dean."

Dean cleared his throat and squinted in the gloom. "The tongue, having been extracted is placed in a bowl made of yew. It is then anointed three times with the purified oil."

John flicked the oil three times over the bowl, creating dark, spotty lines in the ashes.

Dean handed over the bagged herbs. "The holy herbs are then sprinkled over the tongue."

John opened the bag and let its contents fall into the bowl as well.

"The mixture is then anointed again, while reciting the benediction. Where'd Bobby find this thing anyway? A benediction?" Dean said as he passed the notebook over to John as well. He held the oil in one hand and the book in another. Dean stood behind him so that he could shine the flashlight onto the page. Sam shifted on his feet, distinctly aware that he was no help at all in this particular scenario.

John tipped the oil, letting it flow in a small, trickling stream as he read out in his deep voice:

" _Purga quod intrinsecus recurrat ablatum. Sit deleri et offerat quod invitus_."

He let the oil pour for another moment, for good measure. Sam eyed the concoction warily. It was dark and spotted, looking distinctly like wet concrete.

"It says you should eat it now," John said. "You have to eat the entire thing."

He produced a spoon and handed both bowl and utensil over to Sam.

Sam stared down into the bowl. He had to eat that? He shuddered, but barely hesitated. He plunged the spoon in and brought a giant scoop up to his mouth. He closed his eyes, took a breath, and stuck the spoonful in his mouth. It was gritty and somewhat slimy from the oil. It slid across his tongue like sandpaper and he nearly gagged when he tried to swallow it.

Wordlessly, Dean handed over a bottle of water. Sam took it and gulped down half of it in an effort to keep from cough ash everywhere. It wouldn't work if he didn't actually swallow as much as he could.

His face must have shown his disgust. Dean whacked him on the back. "Don't quit. You've got to do the whole thing. There's plenty of water, just take your time."

But Sam frowned. He was going to take as little time as possible, of that he was sure. He gathered another large spoonful, and bracing himself, shoved that in his mouth too. The second spoonful was more difficult than the first. The water had moistened the first batch and now everything was sticking to the roof of his mouth like cement. He scraped off what he could and went for another scoop.

It took eight large scoops to get it all from the bowl to his mouth, and four bottles of water to get it all down, but Sam did manage it. When it was over, he sat against the cave wall, letting his muscles relax and swallowing to keep his revolting stomach under control. The ash sat like lead, but his mind knew what he had just eaten and was determined to rid his body of it.

John and Dean left him alone while he tried to collect himself. A hand on his shoulder made him crack an eye. "How you doing, Sam?"

Sam shrugged. He wasn't quite willing to trust his stomach contents to stay on the inside yet.

"Come on. Did it work?"

Sam breathed deeply through his nose. He closed his eyes again, concentrating very hard on what he wanted to do. He wanted to say Dean's name. It was going to work. He couldn't help the small bloom of hope that he was trying hard not to acknowledge. He was going to open his mouth and say Dean's name. Then they were going to hike back down from the cave, pack their bags, and get out of this town.

Another deep breath.

"Dean."

All that escaped him was the hitching breath that had been his voice for the past two days.

Sam let his head fall back against the stone behind him, his eyes dropping shut. He didn't have to look at Dean to see the utter disappointment in his face. It was writhing in his own chest. He clenched his eyes tighter, determined not to let the tears fall that had welled up at the realization.

He should have known.

"Son of a bitch!"

A crash made Sam flinch and he opened his eyes to find that the cave had been plunged into semi-darkness. Dean still stood as a shadowy bulk at his side, but he couldn't make John out in the gloom of the cave. Dean fumbled with something, then his flashlight clicked on.

John stood on the far side of the fire pile, hands over his face, shoulders slumped. He didn't move when the beam spotlighted him. Shattered bits of metal and plastic glinted on the floor where he had hurled his flashlight at the cave wall.

"Dad?" Dean said tentatively. They had seen John Winchester angry, but never like this.

John breathed deeply and scruffed his hands through his hair. The gesture seemed to take forever. Finally he turned to Sam and Dean.

"Right," he said with a frown. "Pack this stuff up and let's get gone." His voice was unusually harsh as he ground out his words.

He marched from the cave without a backwards glance. Sam stood. John was right. There was nothing more they could do here. Maybe Bobby would have news by the time they got back to the motel. Either way, they were done in the cave.

Dean seemed unconvinced. "Sam?"

Sam paused from shoving empty water bottles into the pack and looked up. Dean was frowning at him, brow creased.

"This isn't the end. We're going to keep looking. Maybe this ritual just takes time to take effect."

Sam went back to the packing with a shrug.

Dean scooped up the bowl and spoon from their place on the floor and came to stand in front of Sam, who was concentrating on not making eye contact. He didn't know what he would say, even if he could speak.

Dean knelt down beside him bumping shoulders.

"I'm serious," He said. "Even if this was a bust, we aren't giving up. There's got to be a way."

Sam looked his brother in the eye. Dean sounded so sure. He could see the dedicated sincerity in his brother's expression. Dean wasn't going to quit looking.

Sam just hoped there was something out there to find.


	5. The Run

Sam sat in the backseat with a book, pretending to read as the Impala shuddered under him. They were moving on and Sam was trying his very best not to look back over his shoulder at the retreating town. This would mean the third town this school year. He was going to start over. Again.

Sam brought the book closer to his face. He never did get to take his math test. Or take Sarah Hartman out for ice cream like they had planned. Not that it mattered much now. He very much doubted whether that would be a fun date for either of them at this point.

In the front seat, Dean and John were discussing their next move. John was convinced they should go to Kansas for some reason Sam could not fathom. It's not like there was anything there and his father had yet to offer any solid logic for his enthusiasm. Dean on the other hand was pushing for a trip to South Dakota to meet up with Bobby and take some time to research. John seemed against this idea, but again, Sam was unsure why.

He rarely understood all of John's reasoning, but it was a little out of character for him to not offer an explanation of some kind. When asked, all John would say was, "Bobby will call when he finds something. We are more use on the road."

To which Dean had responded, "How exactly?" Sam winced at the tone. If he had spoken that way, he'd be the lucky recipient of another John Winchester style lecture on respect. Fortunately for him, Dean seemed to be exempt from these lectures. As he was asking the very question Sam wanted an answer to, he was not ready to point out the disparity.

"The last number he has for us was the motel," Dean continued. "Wouldn't it make more sense to stick in one place until we know what's going on? Or better yet, head there so we can help with the research?"

But John had frown tightly and said, "We're leaving and that's final."

Despite his certain tone, John seemed rather aimless. There was no hunt on the horizon and no real reason they were now hurtling down the highway instead of waking up as comfortably as they ever did in the motel they had camped out in. Sam could count on one hand the number of times he had done that. John was not one prone to wanderlust. His moves were driven out of a firm necessity to pursue the job.

Usually his good reason for abandoning a town early involved cops and an unhealthy interest in their home life or an investigation into the questionable things that so often happened around John Winchester. Really it was a miracle his father hadn't been arrested more often.

In the end, Dean had won one argument, convincing John to visit Bobby. For Sam's sake. Sam was still mad about that comment, but at least they were going somewhere. Sam had his doubts as to whether or not that would be the salvage yard, but he knew they would get close, relatively speaking, and Dean would be on the phone with Bobby the first chance he got wherever they stopped for the night. He had been for the last three nights, not that anything had turned up yet.

Still, Sam was not about to complain about not sticking around Alpha. He was angry that he hadn't had time to get his school records or notes from his teachers. He'd have to start over at the next school unless he could convince Forest Park High School to fax something over wherever he ended up. Sam had been totally unprepared the night of the hunt. Typically they had at least a day or so of down time after a hunt and given the fact that it was getting late in the school semester, it made sense that they would stick around for another month or so. John did his best to keep them settled for decent stretches of time, if for no other reason at this point than to not have to listen to Sam bitch about constantly having to move.

Normally, Sam would have made himself a folder before he left. He'd have pulled together a collection of his latest work and any relevant records from the school to take with him. That way at least his teachers would know where he stood when he finally landed back in a new school. None of them had anticipated such a disruption to their routine.

Sam didn't really want to think about the work that was waiting for him wherever he ended up. Instead, he refocused on his book, realizing he had accidentally stolen it from the school library. He had been in the process of writing an English paper and hadn't even thought about it in the rush to get packed that morning. He supposed it wasn't like they could really do anything to him now. Maybe if he got the chance, he'd mail it back from the next town they settled in.

While he typically avoided petty theft, he was glad to have something to distract him. He had been trying to read and forget the thing hanging in the heavy atmosphere of the Impala. Even when Dean and John bickered in the front seat over something inane, he could feel it looming between them.

In the front seat Dean was making sniping comments about…Lead Zeppelin? Sam had long since lost track of the argument, having no way to contribute and no real interest in the debate. He watched them interact, John snorting and the easy, back and forth banter between them. Sam felt like he was sitting in his own little island. He tucked his feet up under him in an effort to settle more comfortably and pushed his nose closer to the page, picking up where he had left off;

 _The young man and his companion often went apart and appeared to weep. I saw no cause for their unhappiness, but I was deeply affected by it. If such lovely creatures were miserable, it was less strange that I, an imperfect and solitary being, should be wretched…_

Sam frowned. That was a little close for comfort to his own predicament. He glanced up at Dean and John trying to ignore the gulf he felt stretching between them. He fought down the feeling and went back to his book, skipping over a page and hoping to find something a little less relevant to his current situation.

 _By degrees I made a discovery of still greater moment. I found that these people possessed a method of communicating their experience and feelings to one another by articulate sounds. I perceived that the words they spoke sometimes produced pleasure or pain, smiles or sadness, in the minds and countenances of the hearers. This was indeed a godlike science, and I ardently desired to become acquainted with it. But I was baffled in every attempt I made for this purpose…_

Sam grimaced and snapped the book shut. He stared at the cover. Snow had collected over the stones of a ruined, medieval building. The sepia tones of the image made the picture seem even more barren, like a desert, even with all the snow. He frowned at it and shoved it into the bag at his feet. He rummaged for a moment, looking to see if he had anything else to distract himself with, but he had packed the rest of his reading books into the duffle in the trunk. He came up with only a half filled notebook and slim volume on werewolves.

He wasn't in the mood for werewolves today. They were altogether too violent and too sad a figure. He couldn't help but sympathize with them, at least a little. He had a hard time imagining what it must be like to go to sleep one night and wake up a monster, full of murderous instincts and a thirst for blood. Werewolves always bothered him. Underneath it all it was still a person who was normal twenty-seven days of the month.

He had long since decided that the worst part was killing a monster and burying a man.

Sam let his bag drop back to the floor and leaned back against the leather seat. He let his eyes droop closed and the sound of Dean and his father arguing to wash over him, underscored by the steady thumping of rock that perpetually filled the silence in the car.

He vaguely wondered exactly what would happen next. Would he have to hunt? What happened when they needed to communicate? Although, on a hunt that was usually silent communication, but even just in general it was a valid concern. What if he had to yell for help? What if John decided he was a liability?

Something bounced off his nose and he jumped, coming back into reality.

"Earth to Sammy!" Dean was yelling.

Sam glared at him. He channeled as much angry irritation as he could through his gaze. It didn't seem to do any good. Dean was leaning over the back of seat, a small scrap of paper balled up and ready to flick at Sam.

"There you are. I was beginning to think you were actually asleep."

Sam's glare turned into a scowl, and he turned to look out the window. Even if he had been asleep, Dean would have pestered him until he woke up.

The ball of paper smacked the tip of his ear. Sam ignored the first one. And the second.

On the third, his already fraying temper finally snapped. He turned, not sure what he was going to do, just in time for a fourth pea sized ball to smack him square between the eyes. He felt heat creeping up his neck as he launched himself at an unprepared Dean, who was still leaning over the back of his seat.

Sam grabbed Dean's wrist, pulling his arm at an uncomfortable angle. He reached over, trying to grab the sheet Dean had been demolishing in his quest to piss Sam off, but Dean held it out of reach. Instead, Sam altered his tactics, knowing he'd never get his hands on the paper from his position. He put pressure on Dean's wrist, bending it backwards and making sure his narrowed eyes met Dean's measure for measure.

Dean tried to twist out of his grasp, but Sam had a firm hold and yanked so that Dean was pulled hard against the seat.

"Boys!" John shouted. Sam dropped Dean's arm out of surprise at the tone. Even Dean jumped back so that he was sitting sideways in his seat, back against the door and looking at John.

It had been ages since John yelled like that.

Sam was sitting behind his father, so he could only gauge John's mood by what he could see in the rearview mirror. It wasn't encouraging.

The car pulled over to the side of the road, jerking to a halt just off the shoulder of the highway. It was only then that Sam noticed the grey day had turned from overcast to drizzly, adding a light sheen of water to the road.

John took a deep breath, hands tight on the steering wheel.

When he finally turned around, it was with a look of restrained anger. The lines were tight in his face.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

He got no response. Even if he had been able to talk, Sam was pretty sure that was a rhetorical question.

"You know better than to do crap like that when I am driving. On a slick road with traffic no less. Both of you do. So I want an explanation. What. The hell. Were you doing?"

Sam had gone still, unused to John's wrath at this level. He had gotten unintentionally good at provoking his father's ire lately, but this was something beyond that. Sam got the impression that John wasn't just angry. They had scared him.

And what was worse was they _did_ know better than to pull such a stupid stunt in a moving car. Across the driver's seat no less. It would have been a little different if they had both been in the back seat and tussling. That they had done hundreds of times.

Sam looked down at his lap, heat rising in his cheeks again, not in anger this time.

"Well?" John demanded. "I'm waiting."

Neither of them spoke.

"I expect an answer. Now!"

Sam had started into an explanation at the sharp tone, but caught himself as the first few words escaped him in a breathy gasp. It was too late of course. John's already reddening face drained of some of its color at his slip. He closed his eyes, fingers going to the bridge of his nose.

"Dad…" Dean started to say, sensing that John was nearing a breaking point. "Look, we're –"

"Save it, Dean," John said. Without looking up, he added, "Out. Both of you."

"But," Dean said.

"Now." John gritted out. "Start running. If you've got the energy to wrestle in the car, you can put in a couple of miles."

"Dad…." Dean was worried about John, Sam could tell. His brother's uncertainty stemmed from a deep seated desire to take care of Sam and John both. He knew something was wrong between them but wasn't sure how to fix it. Sam was not nearly so selfless at that. It was October in Michigan. It was misting. Sam had no desire to be out in that.

"Out." John said again, this time sounding tired and dangerous.

Sam was the first one out of the car for once. He recognized an unwinnable argument when faced with one. They had been in the wrong this time. It was time to take their punishment. It was better for everyone if John had time to cool off.

Dean emerged slowly to stand next to Sam, and they began running together. The road was plenty flat, if crowded in by trees on the side.

Sam was soaked through at two minutes.

About five minutes in, he heard the Impala start up. Gravel crunched as the car started to follow them, inching behind them just enough to keep them in sight.

Even Dean was grumbling after ten.

About twenty minutes in, Sam hit his stride. He was sufficiently warmed up that the rain was feeling refreshing rather than icy, and stretching his muscles felt good. He focused on the rhythm of running and even began to outpace Dean. The lead didn't last long as Dean hurried to match stride with Sam.

The physicality of running was glorious. Here was something that he could just do. He didn't have to think about anything. He let his body take over and concentrated on the feel of propelling himself down the highway.

At some point he fell into a sprint. Dean asked him a question, but he ignored it.

He didn't stop until he heard the horn honk once, signaling for them to slow down and cool off. He still felt like he was bursting with energy and he wanted to feel his stride eat up the broken pavement until everything was far behind him.

But Dean was looking miserable with the damp in his hair and his t-shirt sticking to him and Sam realized he was in no better shape.

When they finally stumbled to a halt, the Impala had pulled up behind them, waiting. Dean opened the front door, and was met with a towel flung in his face.

"Dry off," John said. "You're not getting in this car when you're that wet. Dean sheepishly began to towel off, handing over a second towel for Sam to use. Sam glanced in the back seat and saw a pile of clothes waiting for him. Dean had one too.

Carefully wrapping the towel around him, he peeled off his shirt. A passing car honked. Dean grinned and flexed his arms, in a similar state of undress. Sam blushed, ducking his head. He scooted closer to the car so that he was mostly blocked by sleek metal. Quickly as he could he shed his wet clothes and changed into the dry ones. He slid back into his seat and shoved the wad of wet clothes and towels into the foot of the car, adding Dean's to the pile when he flung them at Sam's face.

"Feel better?" John asked. He sounded much calmer.

"Yes, sir." Dean said quickly, obviously not keen on being put back out into the rain.

Sam nodded when John looked at him, but didn't meet his father's eye.

He didn't know what he felt at just that moment. Like he could run another hour or two and still not be rid of the nervous energy that was sitting just under his skin. Like he wanted his father to be able to look at him without going pale and tired around the edges.

He wasn't sure if he would ever feel better.

* * *

A/N: The quotes are from Mary Shelly's _Frankenstein._ If you haven't read this book, I highly recommend it. Sorry this one took so long. I'm in the middle of the last few week of school and things are crazy. My life make no sense whatsoever right now. I am also doing NaNoWriMo. If this is poorly edited, please be forgiving. Crit is always welcomed, especially for horrendous typos.


	6. The Respite

They pulled off of the interstate and made for a motel about an hour outside of South Dakota. Sam had long since fallen into a doze. One of the benefits of never getting to sit up front was being able to stretch out and nap whenever he wanted. He knew it was part of Dean's plan, but most of the time, he didn't mind. He was woken when Dean protested the decision to stop. Loudly.

"We should keep going!" Dean said. He was glaring at the motel sign announcing vacancies at the Wild Wild West Motel, complete with a neon cowboy. "We've only got another two hours to get to Bobby's."

"We're stopping Dean." John said. His voice was firm, if tired.

"But I'm fine. I can drive if you're worried about it."

"Dean, it's near eleven," John said, his patience wearing thin. "Bobby'll be in bed by the time we get there. Do you want to get shot in the ass?"

Sam snorted in the back seat as the car pulled to a stop in a spot near the front office.

"Shut it, you," Dean said to him. "Bobby wouldn't shoot us."

"Singer is a paranoid old man who'd shoot at his own shadow. The man don't like company and doesn't hesitate to make it known. We'll go in the morning, when he's more likely to ask questions first."

Dean opened his mouth, but Sam pinched him, relishing the way Dean jumped. His brother whirled around as John went in to get them a room. "What was that for?" He demanded.

Sam rolled his eyes and collected his book bag. The argument was a lost cause. Dean didn't have a leg to stand on, regardless of what he thought, and Sam was ready to crash in an actual bed. He was taller than he used to be and even the back seat was a little short for him now.

Bobby would still be there come lunch time tomorrow. And if Dean called him to check in just like he had every night this week, there would be chili waiting for them when they got there. And maybe cornbread. Bobby couldn't boil water, but he made the best chili in the state.

Sure enough, the Winchesters pulled into Singer Salvage about eleven thirty the next day, owing primarily to Dean's nagging. Sam had decided that if he had to take an enforced break from school, he would enjoy the accompanying benefits, namely being able to sleep in past five o'clock for once. Despite his best intentions, he had been rudely awoken at a quarter till seven that morning when his bed started shaking. He cracked an eye open just enough to see Dean bouncing up and down on the foot of the mattress.

Eight o'clock. That was all he was asking for.

Sam didn't even bother to scowl at him. He turned over in bed and aimed a kick at the jerk. Instead of his foot colliding with flesh, Sam found his ankle encircled by a steel grip. He turned to see what Dean was doing when he felt the ghost of fingers run along the bottom of his foot.

Oh hell no. Dean wouldn't. He huffed and tried to shake the grip loose, but Dean had him, his grip like a vice. The sensation was back, stronger. Dean had started tickling in earnest.

Sam flipped on his back, trying to rip his foot from Dean's grip, while simultaneously trying to scowl through the giggles that were fighting to get free. That wasn't mortifying at all. He thrashed, the torture finally making him laugh, a series of breathy gasps that under normal circumstances he'd been feeling self-conscious about. Just at that moment however, breathing was getting difficult and he had to concentrate on fighting off the attack.

"Come on, Sammy," Dean said in a sing-song voice. "Wakey, wakey. Time for breakfast!"

Dean's evil fingers found the one spot on the arch of his foot that was super sensitive. Sam jerked, his other foot making contact with something. The grip along his ankle dropped, accompanied by a loud, "Shit!"

Sam was still panting, trying to get his breath back, but the tone of Dean's voice made him sit up. Dean was clutching his face, blood spilling between his fingers. He was still cussing and moved to get something from across the room. Sam sprang up and pushed him back down on the bed. He ran to the bathroom to collect a washcloth. By the time he got back, Dean was pinching his nose, head tilted back at an uncomfortable looking angle.

Sam walked back to the bed, and nudged Dean. He handed him the cloth. Dean grunted his thanks and went back to giving himself a crick in the neck. Sam rolled his eyes and pushed gently on the back of Dean's head, making him lean forward a bit. Dean shot him a dirty look, but otherwise didn't protest.

Sam came to stand in front of his brother, who looked up at him from under his blond hair. Sam held up ten fingers, then tapped his wrist, unsure of how to say what he needed to.

"Dude, I know. Not my first bloody nose."

The words came out thick and Sam wilted a little. He hadn't meant to physically injure his brother. They had both been playing. Mostly. Sam shuffled off to see if there was anything remotely cold in the mini-fridge set into the cabinet under the TV. He came up with a bottle of water and a suspicious looking bag of cheese, probably left over from the last people to stay, although he was unable to guess who in the world would bring bagged cheese along for a snack. He checked the ice bin, but none of them had bothered to fill it as they had only planned to sleep and move on the next morning.

He brought the bag of cheese, which was starting to turn green under the plastic, over to Dean who pressed it against his face. Sam did his best to slink back away and give him some space. If he'd been able to speak, he would have apologized or asked if Dean was okay. He didn't like having something like a physical blow laying between them, however unintentional it was.

"Hey," Dean said, noticing the space. "You okay over there?"

Sam frowned, but avoided his eye. Trust Dean to start mothering him when Dean was the one who was hurt.

"Come on. Don't be such a little bitch. It's just a little blood. And anyways, I always did say you punch like a girl. Guess you have to make up for it somehow."

Sam took that for the forgiveness it probably was and punched Dean in the arm.

"See?" Dean said. "Pathetic."

Sam scrunched up his nose and stuck his tongue out at Dean. If he was going to be an ass about it, fine.

Dean started to say something, but was cut off by the jingle of keys. The door opened and John stepped into the room, plastic bags hanging from his arm and the smell of bacon filling the room. He stopped just inside the door and stared at the boys.

"Dean? What happened?"

Dean jumped up to face John a look of guilt in his eye. "Sorry, sir. I—" He let his hand fall to his side and the deluge started again. Sam tugged him back down and shoved the bloody washrag at him, holding seven fingers this time.

John's eyes flicked to the salt lines and back to his eldest son.

"What happened?"

"It was an accident, that's all."

A hard glint came into John's eye. He shoved the door shut and moved to set the bags on the table. "What was an accident?"

"Sam and I were just goofing off. Things got a little out of hand."

John focused in on Sam next. "Samuel," he said, a hint of warning coloring his voice. Sam shrank. Here it came. It's not like Dean hadn't provoked him. Anger flared in his stomach and he met John's eye. It wasn't his fault. At least, it wasn't completely his fault.

Dean seemed to be thinking along the same lines. He shook his head. "No, Dad. It's my own fault."

Sam gaped at Dean. His brother was not above letting Sam take the blame for more than his share, if it suited him. He was not used to seeing his nineteen year old brother look sheepish.

"What do you mean, Dean?"

Dean shifted on the bed and stared at his shoes. "I was just trying to wake Sam up and well, the opportunity presented itself. I was only trying to ruffle him so he'd get out of bed, but I must have hit a nerve. He jerked and kicked me in the nose. It's fine," Dean added at the end.

John seemed to think this was anything but fine. "What have I told you boys about wrestling in the room? Training is one thing, but if you are going to behave like heathens at least take it outside."

Sam and Dean exchanged a look, but did their best to look chastised. No way in hell were they going to tell him that Dean had been tickling him. Sam would take that to his grave.

"Sam, I taught you better. You owe me ten laps before we leave." Sam grimaced but didn't protest. It would only add extra laps. "We'll work on your control later."

"Dean, let that nose be a lesson to you. Don't rough house and don't attack people while they're sleeping if you don't want to get hit in the face."

"Yes, sir." Dean muttered.

Sam felt this was a bit unfair as he hadn't started it and it was primarily Dean's fault all the way around, but he also knew that ten laps was nothing and Dean would have an ugly black bruise for at least a week. Sam forced back his grin at the thought. Served him right.

In the end it was after nine before they loaded the car up and made it to Bobby's.

Bobby was waiting for them on his porch, his Rottweiler mutt pacing beside him. Sam liked Rumsfeld. The dog was about a year old and hadn't quite figured out that he was no longer puppy sized. The dog showed remarkable self-restraint. He stayed by Bobby's side for a whole minute as the Winchesters piled out of the car, but as soon as they started up the drive, he gave a yip and bounded down to them. He pranced in front of John and Dean, then jumped up on Sam and planted a big, slobbering lick up the side of Sam's face.

Sam laughed, not catching John's quickly averted eyes or the sharp look Dean gave their father at the odd puffing sound and knelt down. He ruffled Rumsfeld's fur behind his ears and let the dog give him another lick. When he straightened back up, the dog attached himself to Sam's side, sticking close as he moved and generally making it difficult to walk at all.

They walked to the foot of the porch stairs and looked up at Bobby, who stood at the top with his hands on his hips. "Winchester," he said. His tone was tight but not hostile. Sam knew Bobby and John didn't always get on. They were on terse speaking terms most of the time, but Sam never really knew why.

"Singer," John said with a nod.

They stared at each other for a minute. Rumsfeld, beside Sam could sense the tension and whined, unsure of where he ought to be.

Finally Bobby moved his attention to the boys. "Sam, good to see you." Sam grinned and nodded up at the man.

"Dean, you look like shit."

Dean smiled. "Good to see you too, Bobby."

"I'm serious, boy." Bobby said. "Looks like you got the wrong end of a fight. Did you finally meet a girl you couldn't handle?"

Bobby's grin was wicked.

"You wish."

John didn't seem to see the humor. "Sam kicked him in the face," he said. Sam could still hear irritation in his voice.

Bobby's eyes narrowed. He scrutinized Dean from head to toe and asked, "What did you do?"

Dean flung his hands up. "Why does everyone assume I'm the bad guy here?"

"Because you usually are."

"Hey!"

"From what I understand," John said. "He thought it would be funny to pounce on his brother to wake him up. Sam thought otherwise."

Sam smirked at Dean behind John's back. Dean winked back.

Bobby caught the interaction but didn't say anything. "Sounds about right," he said turning towards the door. "Come on in. The usual bedrooms are free. Chili's on the stove. Should be ready in another hour or so."

He led them into the house. The smell of onion and garlic filled the house and made Sam's mouth water. Bobby pointed towards the stairs. "Go on and put your things down. Once you're done, Sam, you can come help in the kitchen if you want."

Sam smiled. It was tradition for Sam to help in the kitchen when they visited, ever since he had been just tall enough to see the top of the stove. Dean was the one with a flair for cooking, but Sam liked that Bobby always included him. Dean was also good with a gun and at throwing a ball. He got to do those things with Uncle Bobby growing up. This was Sam's.

Plus with Dean, one could never be entirely sure of their food.

As Sam got older, he couldn't help but wonder if maybe this was the sort of thing he could have had with John if they hadn't been hunters. He felt guilty for thinking it, but sometimes he felt like Bobby was more a father to them than John. The man had been a recurring presence in their lives until Sam turned ten, then the visits dwindled. Sam was old enough to stay on his own and John seemed to prefer Pastor Jim over Bobby if he had to leave Sam anywhere.

Sam dumped his bag on the foot of his usual bed, waved off Dean's comment about the shower, and jogged back down the stairs. He had gone about halfway when he realized John and Bobby were still downstairs in the kitchen. He paused on the step, unsure whether he ought to go back up or on into the room. When he stopped, he heard John's voice coming from the next room.

"….Singer. I'm only here because of Sam. If you try to pull your usual crap, me and the boys will be gone before you can blink."

"I've told you before, you can't keep treating them like this. Those boys ain't marines."

"Those boys are mine and I'll raise them how I want. They need to be prepared."

Bobby cussed. "I'm not arguing that point, but they need a father too."

"I am their father and I'll thank you to keep your nose out of it. Find something to fix Sam. We get him better and we're gone."

Unlike the fight with doctor, Sam could hear the heat in those words. He wouldn't be surprised if they came to blows soon. He took a breath and clomped the rest of the way down the stairs, making his footfalls as obvious as possible. By the time he made it into the kitchen, Bobby was pulling down bowls and John was leaning on the counter with a cup of coffee. He nodded at Sam, then collected his cup and left, mumbling something about needed to get his stuff from the car.

Sam met Bobby's eye. He knew they had been arguing over him, at least a little. Bobby knew that he knew.

Bobby shrugged and pointed at a bowl. "Cornbread ain't gonna make itself, you know."

Sam hesitated by the door, then came over to the counter and fished out the bag of cornmeal from under the cabinet. He began measuring it out into the bowl. They worked silently beside each other for a minute before Bobby spoke. "He means well," he said. "I know it doesn't seem like it, but he loves the both of you."

Sam glanced at Bobby. He knew that. He did. He nodded and turned back to the bowl. He just wished he didn't feel like a broken toy right now. Like any minute John was going to decide he was too damaged to keep, too much of a liability to continue working with them. Then he'd be set aside, given to someone else to deal with.

Sam tried to image what it would be like to stay in one place without Dean or his father; to live with Bobby or Pastor Jim until he graduated high school and could move on to college, start his life as an adult. Being a teenager chafed at him more than anything else. The knowledge that he had been hunting and saving people his entire life – could probably survive just about any emergency situation thrown at him – and yet had a curfew, couldn't legally drive in half the states they passed through, and had to be escorted into a bar by his older brother, who technically wasn't allowed in either, was frustrating. He felt like, whether he wanted to be or not, he was grown up on the inside, but not on the outside. On the one hand he yearned for the freedom of adulthood, on the other, all he really wanted was to be ten years old again going fishing with his big brother.

"Come on, boy," Bobby said, shoving a carton of eggs at him. "Get to cracking. Or Dean might decide he wants to help."

Sam smiled up at Bobby, grateful. If he had to stay here, he could see it being a good place. He picked up an egg and broke it into the bowl.


	7. The Breaking Point Pt 1

Bobby, Sam, and Dean were gathered in the living room of Bobby's house, which had become their central research hub. At first it had been practical. They could all fit around the table and share resources. Now, the table was filled so full of stacks of books, Sam was amazed it hadn't collapsed under its own weight.

Bobby was pouring over a large tome, bound in leather and smelling of musty paper. Dean cast a baleful glace every few minutes at him from the dining room table where he had been banished. Earlier he had wandered into the room to look over Bobby's shoulder, bowl of mac and cheese in hand. Bobby had taken one look at Dean's food and said, "You bring that yellow slop near this book and I'll smack you so hard your grandparents will feel it."

Dean had understandably retreated to a safe distance, alternately reading a newspaper and watching Bobby research.

Sam sat curled up on the couch. He had bundled himself in an old, red knitted blanket and snuggled down into the cushions, trying to fight off the October chill. Rumsfeld was laying on his feet, pressed up close to Sam's side. Sam relished his warmth. Rumsfeld had claimed Sam since the day they had arrived, barely leaving his side. He had even taken to sleeping curled at the foot of Sam's bed at night.

Sam shivered, aware now of how little blanket he actually had. Rumsfeld seemed to have claimed about half of it to lay on, pulling it down off of Sam so that goosebumps stood up on his arms. He was beginning to think that being naked outside in thirty degree weather probably hadn't been a great idea. He hesitated to say anything because he knew it was probably just a little cold. Dean would shake something like this off and keep going, so Sam would try to do the same. To top it off the misery, he was marginally sure he was going to have a roaring headache by the end of the day.

From his spot on the couch, Sam could see both Dean and Bobby going about their business. He was pretending to read his stolen library book, but had given up concentrating on it about an hour ago and instead watched them over the top of the pages. He just wanted to avoid having to do anything physical that would mean leaving his nice, warm cocoon.

He had almost dropped off, head propped on his hand and staring blearily at his book, when Bobby straightened. Rumsfeld's head popped up, but he didn't move from Sam's side. Sam felt his heart sink. Not again.

"Okay, I may have a spell," Bobby said. Sam drew in a long, slow breath. So far, spells had been the worst. The last one had left him with blue skin for a couple of hours until they could reverse it. Dean still cackled every time he called Sam a smurf.

"Really?" Dean had perked up and set the newspaper aside. "What kind?"

"Looks like some sort of druidic thing. Late fifteenth century if I had to guess."

Dean stopped, spoon halfway to his mouth. "How the fuck would you go about guessing that?"

Bobby rubbed the back of his neck. Sam hid his smile behind his own book. "Well, the Latin for one. And the book itself. And the script. You spend enough time with dusty old things like this, you pick up a thing or two."

Dean leaned back. He looked at Bobby, as though seeing him for the first time. "All right then," he said slowly. "What is it?"

"It's a spell to find something lost."

"Something lost? Sam can't speak," Dean said. "It's not like he misplaced his car keys."

Bobby glared at Dean, who had finally wandered over to stand beside the older man.

"I know that, but his voice was stolen. Something stolen can usually be found. Plus, it's not just a locator spell. Looks like it returns what was missing."

Sam listened to them bicker, working out the likelihood of the spell being successful while simultaneously sniping at each other. They were a good team and the rhythm of it was soothing in a way, but Sam recognized the desperation in Bobby's voice and could tell even Dean was clutching at straws to make it work.

"What do we have to do?" Dean wanted to know.

"Let's see." Bobby leaned down over the text. "This one's going to take some prep work."

"Why?"

"For starters," Bobby said. "We need a sacrificial goat. And three drops of virgin blood."

"Three drops? That seems mild, comparatively."

"Don't look at me. I don't have the finer points of spell theory. All I know is it's a purification element."

"Okay, so let's assume we steal a goat and get three drops of virgin blood." Sam blinked at Dean's matter of fact tone. He'd managed to say that sentence with a straight face. When had statements like that become commonplace for them? When had his life become goats and virgin blood? He shivered and slunk down further into the couch. "What else," Dean demanded. "That it?"

"No. 'Course not. There's chanting. Sam has to bathe in the goat's blood and there's a rune that has to be drawn on his forehead in ash. No more complicated than anything else we've tried."

"Perfect. We'll need to get started right away. Where do you find virgin blood anyway?"

Sam felt a pang in his gut. They'd been trying for nearly a month now. In that time, Sam had been through more gross and humiliating things than he cared to recollect. He had been anointed in gunky slime, been made to bleed nearly a cup of his own blood, been wrapped in seaweed, and made to eat all manner of disgusting things, not the least mentionable among them being toad tongues. He'd been through spell, after ritual, after ceremony. Each time he felt a small prick of hope that he tried to burry under rational thinking. Each time he felt a little more of the disappointed ache when the attempts failed to produce any results.

John had seemed more frustrated than Sam. He withdrew nearly completely the first week and by the second had taken to disappearing into town for long stretches at a time. Dean never let Sam come along to pick him up, but Sam was fairly certain he spent a lot of time at the bar. That or he went out back and shot at the hulks of cars for hours. Sometime last week, he took off, driving the Impala out of Bobby's yard and onto the highway around six a.m.

Sam knew John felt responsible, but didn't know how to comfort him. Or confront him. Sam didn't blame his father, not for this directly. There was still the same frustration at trying to be a normal teenage boy and be a hunter at the same time. If they hadn't been hunting this might never have happened, but Sam also knew there were enough crazy things out there to realize anything could have happened to him regardless of what life he lead.

Sam glanced up. Dean and Bobby were still debating strategy, ignoring him completely. The thought of another spell filled him with dread. He wanted to be whole. He would love to speak and laugh and ridicule Dean. But he wanted to feel a little less broken more than he wanted to be healed.

Sam couldn't take another minute of this. Something had to change. He was exhausted and tired of the useless, endless cycle of rituals.

Sam flung his book at Dean, clipping him in the shoulder. Rumsfeld laid his head in Sam's lap, staring up at him with large eyes at the same time Dean looked up from the book at him confused. "What?"

Sam pulled his notebook from where he'd wedged it earlier between his leg and the arm of the couch. He had taken to using it when he needed to say something to Dean or Bobby. He kept a small flip pad in the back pocket of his jeans when he went out, at Dean's insistence, but the notebook John had scrawled that first ritual in had been more convenient at home. Its bigger pages allowed him a little more room. Not that any of his notes were ever that long, but he could fit more of the conversation on one page.

 _No more._ Sam scrawled the two words at the top of a blank page. He flung the book at Dean, who caught it as it made thwump against his chest.

Dean scowled and Bobby got up to read it over his shoulder. "No more what, Sam?"

Sam motioned for his pad. Dean stepped over to the couch and passed it back to him.

 _No more rituals._

Sam snuggled further into a ball as Dean collected the book.

He watched as Dean looked confused, hurt, and angry in turn. Rumsfeld whined from his spot next to Sam, sensing the tension mounting in the room.

"What do you mean, no more?" Dean demanded, "Don't you want to find a cure? You want to be like this for the rest of your life?"

Sam closed his eyes, willing himself not to cry. He really must be coming down with something. Normally a comment like that would have made him angry. Today, he just felt something snapping in his chest.

The rest of his life? Sam hadn't thought about it in those terms – not really. It was just something to work around in the here and now. Something that had come to be a major pain in the ass for everyone involved.

No, he didn't want to be like this at all.

He shook his head.

"Then we keep looking," Dean said, still sounding a little angry.

Sam shook his head again.

He held out his hand for his pad again. Dutifully, Dean handed it back, perhaps a bit more roughly than he would normally.

 _I don't want to be broken anymore._

He flipped the page around.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Dean growled. Rumsfeld shifted and laid a paw across Sam's lap, placing him directly between Sam and Dean. Sam let his hand run down the dog's head, trying to soothe them both. "What do you think we're trying to do? This is all to fix this mess."

Sam frowned and, with a bit more force than necessary wrote, _That's not what I mean. You look at me and think you have to fix me. I'm done with the rituals. I can't do it anymore._

"So you're just going to give up, is that it?" Dean had started shouting at this point.

Bobby was standing quietly off to the side. "Dean," he said. "Let the kid –"

"No," Dean said. "He doesn't get to do this. We've been working our asses off here. And today he decides he wants to sit around and not do anything. Then he can't even be bothered to try what we come up with."

Sam was growing frustrated with this. He'd have screamed if he could.

 _Don't talk about me like I'm not here. I'm sitting right in front of you._

He scrawled the words sideways across the page in large, heavy letters. The words lacked the punch he wanted, but they'd have to do. He stood up, dislodging Rumsfeld who barked and nearly tripped Sam in his effort to stay between the two boys. Sam ignored the dog and the wave of dizziness at standing too fast, and shoved the notebook into Dean's chest. Hard. Dean staggered back, tight frown covering a look of confusion. He glanced down at the paper. His jaw tightened.

He looked like he might say something, but the words never came. He dropped the notepad and turned on his heels, storming from the room, and the house. One minute he was in front of Sam. The next the screen door was snapping shut and Sam was left staring at the empty space where his brother had been.

He glanced at Bobby, who simply looked concerned with a tight frown on his face, glancing between Sam and the door that Dean had left by. Rumsfeld pushed on Sam's legs barking and rubbing against his knees, nearly knocking Sam over in the process. Finally Bobby's eyes settled on Sam, who felt his face heating. He hadn't meant to cause a scene, but Dean was being an jerk.

Sam stooped to pick up his notebook. About halfway there, he felt the dizziness return. In a blink, he found himself on the floor, looking up at the ceiling. His face was getting a thorough licking and he wondering when exactly he'd gone from stooping to sitting on his ass.

"Sam?" Bobby's worried voice seemed to come slowly to him. Sam glanced over at him. He reached out for the pad and picked up the pen from where it had fallen next to him.

"You okay, boy?" Bobby was right next to him. When had that happened?

 _Fine. Just got a little dizzy._

Bobby frowned and leaned over him. Sam shivered. He was cold without his blanket.

"You look like hell."

Sam smiled weakly.

He felt a hand on his forehead and jerked back in surprise. Bobby held his wrist in place against Sam's skin.

"Easy, kid. Just checking."

He seemed concerned, a little crease forming between his brows.

"Sam, how long have you been running a fever?"

He was running a fever? That certainly explained why he was cold and dizzy. He shrugged. Bobby sighed.

"Alright then. Let's get you back on the couch. Think you can stand?"

Sam rolled his eyes and made to get up. He'd just been standing hadn't he? But he found that the task was much more difficult this time around. Bobby had to help steady him and he let himself collapse back on the couch, falling sideways so that his face was buried into the lumpy attempt at a throw pillow Bobby kept. Sam supposed it was probably something his wife had picked out. It really was quite hideous.

Bobby pulled the blanket over him and left for a minute. He returned with a glass of water and a couple of little white pills. Sam ignored the glass and dry swallowed the Tylenol. Bobby set the water on the floor within easy reach. Sam was nearly asleep before Bobby had time to move.

"Get some rest. I'll talk to your brother."

"'Kay Bobby. Thanks."

There was a short silence, then a hand ruffled his hair and he was asleep. Bobby straightened and snapped his fingers at Rumsfeld who was hovering near the foot of the couch, watching the exchange intently.

"Rumsfeld, heel." He said sternly. The dog seemed reluctant to leave, but Bobby grabbed him by the collar and guided him out onto the porch, the same way Dean had gone.

Bobby gave Dean a good ten minutes out in the scrap yard, letting him beat the crap out of an old Honda with a wrench. He wondered what exactly was going through the boy's head. He leaned over the rail, watching Dean in his demolition. Rumsfeld leaned up against his leg, warm and soft.

"Finally remembered who feeds you, huh?" Bobby said to the dog. The dog gave a little bark and wagged his tail. Bobby reached down and scratched his head.

He stood like that for a minute, wondering how exactly he was going to pull Dean back in line. The boy had been through a lot in the last few weeks, but his brother needed him and the kid was making an ass out of himself. Not that Bobby could blame him. At that age, he'd probably not have been able to handle even half of the situation that Dean was managing.

John had really done a number on those kids.

Bobby pushed off and made for the stairs. Rumsfeld whined behind him. He glanced back. The dog was looking between him and the door. So he was a glorified door opener now. He walked back across the porch and pulled the screen open.

"There you go, traitor."

Rumsfeld bound in and up to the couch. He laid his head on the cushion next to Sam's head. Sam cracked an eye, barely awake. When he saw the dog, he smiled, patted his head, then scooted over to make room for him to get up on the couch. When boy and dog were settled and Sam seemed to have dropped back off to sleep, Bobby turned again and started towards Dean


	8. The Breaking Point Pt 2

Bobby made his way down the yard to where Dean was now leaning against the Honda, metal rod in hand and staring into the sky.

"Feel better?"

Dean shrugged. "Not really."

Bobby frowned, hands on his hips. "What exactly was that inside?"

Dean turned to look Bobby in the eye. "You know what he said!" The anger was hot in his voice. "He wants to give up. We've been working-"

"We've been searching for something we don't even know exists without once asking Sam what he thinks about it, or wants."

"Bobby, he's just being a selfish little shit," Dean said. His voice was tired and frustrated. Bobby could tell he was only saying it to placate him, but Bobby wasn't having it.

Bobby crossed his arms over his chest. "Now you listen here," his voice was tight and Dean drew back a little. All Bobby could think of was Sam collapsing to the floor because he hadn't thought to tell them he was sick. Because being sick was tantamount to being weak, something a Winchester should never be. He'd wait to tell Dean about Sam's fever though. He knew Dean wasn't really mad at his brother, not entirely. Adding the guilt that the boy would inevitably take on wouldn't help him work through what the real problem was. "Sam is a lot of things, but selfish ain't usually one of them. Care to tell me what that was really about?"

"I..." Dean hesitated. "I can't give up. Not yet. He's like that because I wasn't fast enough. He should never have been in danger in the first place."

Booby relaxed a little. He'd suspected something of the sort. "Son, I don't think he's blaming you."

"You don't understand!" Dean said. "This whole thing is my fault."

He said this with such conviction, Bobby was surprised into asking, "Why would you think that?"

"That night, Sam was saying something seemed off. He was sure dad was wrong about it being a witch. There was a witch, but we got the wrong cave. I didn't take us far enough. Then I missed when I tried to shoot it. I put Sam in danger and I couldn't even protect him." Dean took another whack at the car he was leaning against.

Bobby swore and grabbed the pipe away from him. "Of all the pig headed, idiotic, bull shit I've ever heard, that takes the cake."

Dean sagged against the car at his words. It was hard sometimes to remember that Dean was nineteen. He was old enough to fend for himself and was almost an adult, but was also still just a teenager. He might have ended up raising Sam, but he was really only a few years older than his kid brother. In that moment, Dean looked like a scared little kid. "But Bobby," he said. "Sam knew something wasn't right and I brushed it off. I thought he was being a little bitch about his test the next day and needed to get his head in the game."

Bobby sucked in a steadying breath. "Dean," he said, forcing all the calm he had into his voice. "Has Sam ever shown any signs of being psychic?"

"What," Dean asked confused. "No. Of course not. Psychics aren't even real."

"So, you're saying there's no reason to think he was being anything other than a whiny teenage boy."

"But-"

"Stow it. There weren't any reason to think anything out of the usual was going to happen. Sam said it was fast. Unless you've gotten to be a whole hell of a lot better of a shot, I doubt you could hit a fast moving target in the dark. It's not your fault."

"But-"

"Dammit, boy. No one could have known. Not you, not John, not Sam. It happened. Now what are you going to do about it? Because standing out here smashing things is not going to help anyone."

"But he wants to quit." Dean said in a small voice.

"Did he ever tell you he was quitting?" Bobby asked.

"He said he was done with the rituals. You were there, Bobby."

"Dean," Bobby said. He crossed his arms and waited till Dean looked him in the eye. "Have you talked to Sam about any of this?" He made a vague gesture towards the house.

"Course," Dean said with a careless shrug. "I told him we were going to fix it."

"That's not what I mean. Have you talked to him about anything else? How is he coping? What have you considered doing if we can't fix this?"

"He's fine," Dean said defensively. "He's been fine. He just can't talk."

Bobby shook his head. "Dean, you're an idiot if you think he's fine."

"He is."

"No he's not. He's just had his world flipped upside down. Both of you have. You can't tell me that you wouldn't be a little freaked out in his shoes. Hell, you're freaked out now."

"He's seemed fine."

"And I guess you've done the same job listening to him these past few weeks as you did this afternoon. You know that boy bottles up everything until it comes spewing back out."

"He's still saying he wants to quit looking."

"Hell, boy. He just had to jump naked over a bed of coals at midnight in October. I'd be ready for a break too! Why don't you ask Sam why he wants to stop?"

"I did," Dean said.

"No you jumped down his throat."

Dean leaned back against the car with a defeated sigh. "You're right. But I don't understand what's gotten into him."

Bobby shrugged and leaned back next to Dean. "Sam's the one who has answers. Not me."

They fell silent as Dean considered this. After a long pause, he pushed off of the car and turned towards the house. "I should go talk to him."

Bobby shook his head. "Let the kid rest."

Dean scowled. "Just because he can't talk doesn't make him an invalid suddenly."

"No, but that fever means he'll be out of it for a while."

Dean jerked back around to face Bobby, face tense. "Fever?"

"Relax, Dean. I gave him some Tylenol and made him lay down on the couch. He's fine. Probably last night didn't help anything."

Dean glared at Bobby and rushed back up to the house.

"Yeah, you're welcome," Bobby muttered under his breath. He couldn't begrudge Dean. He knew how close the brothers were.

By the time he trudged up the hill and back into the house, Dean had made himself comfortable in a chair next to the couch with the newspaper he had been reading earlier. Sam was tucked up under the covers with Rumsfeld laying in the hollow behind Sam's bent knees. The dog perked his ears up when Bobby entered, but otherwise didn't stir.

Bobby was glad Sam had managed to find a comfortable position. He was too long to really sleep on the couch anymore. He was only fifteen and was threatening to pass up Dean any day now. Bobby was sure he was going to tower over all of them eventually.

Bobby decided he'd better go put some coffee on. He had a feeling he was in for a long night. He half hoped John stayed disappeared to whatever corner he'd hidden himself in for the next few days. He wasn't in the mood to deal with another Winchester, especially not one prone to doing stupid things. 

* * *

Hi guys. Sorry this one took so long. And it's a short chapter to boot. I just finished all my finals and before that wrapped up NaNoWriMo. As you can imagine, it's been crazy town around here. Hope no one thought I'd abandoned this one. The good news? I've got a couple chapters written that I just haven't had time to proof yet.


	9. The Hallmark Moment(s)

It took two days before Sam felt well enough to move much further than the couch or his bed. His fever had broken that morning and he thought tomorrow he might finally get back to at least helping Bobby do some things around the house. Nothing too strenuous, he certainly wasn't up to training yet, but he'd go crazy if he didn't at least get up and moving for more than ten minutes at a time. Being sick was boring. And it meant he felt like a giant useless lump in the way of everyone else in the house.

At least John had stayed gone. Dean didn't talk about where their father was, but Sam could make a couple of educated guesses. None of them inspired much confidence in the man, but he was glad John hadn't seen him sick.

As the day wore on and the afternoon sun came streaming in through the windows, Sam was thoroughly sick of sitting, but he didn't have much energy for anything else. He ought to go find Dean. Now that he was feeling marginally better, he could feel the tension between them building again. He knew he would have to have a conversation with his brother and soon. He honestly did not expect Dean to be the one to initiate it.

Dean walked over to the couch where Sam was actually managing to read more than a line or two at a time. His fever had meant he hadn't had enough mental prowess to focus for very long and he had drifted so often, the book was really more a prop than any sort of entertainment. It was times like these that Sam wished Bobby would give in and get a TV. He usually didn't think about it one way or another. He'd been stuck in so many places without electricity, lack of a television never really registered. But being stuck inside with nothing to do could be significantly less awful with the distraction of batman reruns.

Sam glanced up at his brother, who was standing there looking down at him, semi-awkward look on his face. If he hadn't known Dean, he might have thought he was irritated. Or constipated. He was frowning slightly and his eyes had narrowed, but in a considering way, more brow than a tightening of his eyes.

Sam frowned and raised his eyebrow, silently waiting for Dean to speak. Dean huffed and flung himself down on the seat next to Sam, dropping Sam's notebook into his lap.

"We need to talk," Dean said.

Sam set his book aside on the arm of the couch, letting it rest face down to keep his place. He picked up the notebook and pulled out the pen clipped to the spiral. He looked at Dean, waiting for him to say whatever was on his mind, as he flipped to a clean sheet.

Dean was quiet at first, staring at his hands. Finally he said, "What did you mean the other day when you said you were done looking for rituals?"

It was Sam's turn to hesitate. He didn't want to provoke his brother. Dean was right, they had been searching high and low for him. If they were willing to do that, he should soldier on and let them try. They were doing it for him, after all. He was just so tired.

He mentally braced himself and wrote, _Nothing. I was just tired and sick. Don't worry about it._

Dean frowned, this one deeper and more disappointed. "Sammy," he said, with just a hint of reproach. "I know you. You meant what you said. You always mean what you say. I just want to understand why."

Sam huffed. Dean could be so infuriating. _I don't want you to be angry with me._

"I want to understand. I can't promise I won't get mad, 'cause if you're being an idiot I'm going to be, but I want to help you. You've got to tell me how to do that."

Sam stared down at the paper in his lap. He had a lot to say. It was going to take a minute to write it all out. He put his pen on the page and began to write.

 _It's just we've been trying and trying. If it was going to work, it would have been with that first ritual, the one actually meant to get my voice back from the creature._

Dean had leaned in to watch over Sam's shoulder, crowding into his space. "You don't know that Sam. There could be any number of things that could get it back."

Sam glared up at him. He pulled the pad over to the couch arm and huddled over it so that Dean couldn't read until he was done. One thing that had become extremely frustrating was how easy it was to overrule or ignore him. It was a far more laborious process to write things out and just because he did, didn't mean that the person he was writing to had to read the whole thing. Too often he found himself either rushed or cut off completely. He knew Dean meant well, but if he was going to have this conversation, he was going to have his say.

Dean flopped back against the couch, feet stretched out across the floor with his hands clasped over his stomach. He leaned his head back to stare up at the ceiling and counted the bumps he could see in the paint.

After a grueling interval in which Dean lost count at least three times, Sam finally turned back around, laying the notebook in his lap. He knew that Dean would read from there and that he would be asking more questions. It was pointless to keep passing the notebook back and forth.

Once again, Dean leaned over to read. This time propping and arm on Sam's shoulder, using him as a prop. Sam shrugged trying to dislodge him, but Dean ignored him.

 _I don't know. But I also don't know that there's something out there either. I can't keep living in limbo. It's been two weeks of non-stop research and experiments. I'm tired of going through ridiculous scenarios that never do what they are supposed to. I ate a pickled badger heart for god's sake._

 _I'm not asking you to give up hope, but I need_ here the words seemed to change, as though it was a different script altogether. They got bigger and darker.

 _I need time. I need to learn how to live with this. I kept trying to believe it was okay, no big deal, but it is a big deal. I can't even answer a telephone. What am I supposed to do about hunting? There's no way I could warn you of something coming or shout for help if I need it. Never mind the everyday things like asking directions or talking to you._

In a much tighter script at the very bottom, Sam had added, _I can't keep being disappointed._

"Sam, I…" Dean said when he finished reading. "I didn't realize. Why didn't you say anything?"

Sam rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest as he sank back into the cushions.

"Seriously man, I didn't realize you'd been that stressed over it."

Sam scribbled, _Of course I'm stressed. I can't make a sound. Do you realize how many things we've hunted that would love to get someone like me? And what about Dad. You think he's going to hang around here forever? Or that he'll take me like this? I sound like a freak._

Dean grabbed Sam's chin and pulled him around to look eye to eye. His eyes were intense and he made Sam squirm with his tight grip. When Dean was sure they were on the same level, he said "This does not make you a freak," forcefully through clenched teeth. "Do you understand?"

Sam nodded in Dean's grasp. As soon as he did, Dean let go.

"And anyway, don't be ridiculous. Dad would never leave you behind." At Sam's pointed look, Dean added. "I wouldn't let him, even if he did try. You know that. We're family. We stick together."

 _You don't have to._

"What?" Dean asked, easy smile returning. "Keep Dad in line? That's practically my full time job." Dean chuckled, but Sam couldn't find the humor in the situation. Since when was it Dean's job to look after everyone?

 _I mean stay with me._ Sam explained. _I know it hurts you._

Dean frowned. Sam could see him working out what he meant and looked away, not willing to see what Dean might think of that. If he wanted to leave, Sam would let him.

"Are you kidding me?"

Sam glanced back at Dean and saw something he didn't expect. Dean was angry. Not the storming-out-of-the-house angry that he had been before, but angry nonetheless.

"I'm not leaving you," Dean snarled. "I would never. Why would you even say that?"

Sam glanced at Dean from under his lashes. Carefully, slowly he replied, _I just don't like to be the reason you're upset. I see it when you look at me. You think I'm broken and you need to fix me. Dad doesn't even look at me anymore._

"Sam…" Dean didn't know exactly what to say. He cleared his throat. "Of course it upsets me that you are hurt." Sam shook his head. He wasn't hurt, but Dean barreled on. "I don't care what you call it. You're my baby brother. I was supposed to protect you. I…" Dean swallowed. His aversion to having any kind of emotional exchange waring with his need to make Sam understand. "I failed and I'm sorry. I always thought I could keep you safe when we hunted."

Sam laid a hand on his arm, letting it rest there. When he drew away, it was to write, _Not your fault._

Dean shook his head. "Yeah, Sammy. It was. I got us to the wrong cave. I missed that first shot. Hell, I should have listened to you to start with."

 _Neither of us knew. I missed that shot too, and I was wrong about the witch anyway. Stop blaming yourself. It's not your fault. It just happened._

"But –"

Sam smacked him in the shoulder. _NOT YOUR FAULT._ Sam wrote it so hard that his pen almost tore through the paper.

"Sure Sammy," Dean said. Sam could hear the ghost of a laugh in his voice, but knew it wouldn't be that simple.

 _SAM_

Dean grinned wickedly. "Whatever you say, Sammy-boy."

Sam tried to tackle Dean, but he was far too weak to be very effective. Vengeance would have to wait for another day. Dean pinned him to his seat and flicked his nose, just to prove he could before moving back to his own seat.

Sam blinked, his eyes heavy in the silence that followed. He fought back a yawn.

Finally, after Sam was sure they were done, Dean said, "Are you sure about this? Maybe this thing Bobby found is worth a try."

Sam reached for the pad that had fallen to the floor in the tussle. _I'm sure. Just give me a chance to figure things out._

Dean looked entirely unconvinced. "Like what? Wouldn't it be better to keep looking and solve this as quickly as we can?"

 _What do I do in the mean time? Even if there is a solution, it could take years to find. I need to be able to communicate now._

Dean didn't have an answer to that.

 _Please?_

That was the key. Dean's resolve crumbled. His shoulders dropped a little, but he acquiesced. "Okay, Sam. We'll see what we can do. But you have to take it easy for a day or two."

Sam made a face. He had done nothing but take it easy for three days. "I'm not kidding," Dean said. "You had a fever of 103. You need to rest."

 _Fine, jerk. But you'll help?_

"Of course. What else would I do?"

Sam flung his arms around Dean, who patted his back. "Yeah, yeah. I'm awesome."

Sam drew back and stuck his tongue out at Dean.

It was the lightest moment they'd had since they left Alpha, MI.

Sam yawned wide, suddenly aware that he'd been vertical at least three times longer than at any point in the last few days. Dean smirked. "Awe, is wittle Samantha tired?"

Despite his mocking, he stood up and pushed Sam down across the couch. "Better put you down for your nap then." He made a production of flopping the blanket around, but it did eventually end up tucked around Sam nice and snug. Not that Sam really registered this fact. He had been more tired than he realized and was nearly asleep.

"Need a lullabye?"

Sam flipped Dean off, then snuggled down into the blanket. He heard Dean chuckle as he started to drowse.

It was dark when he woke. There was a light in in the kitchen where he could hear the muted voices of Bobby and Dean. Dean was laughing. Sam paused. He hadn't heard Dean actually laugh for months.

He stood as quietly as he could and made his way to the kitchen. He leaned on the wall in the doorway, arms folded across his chest and watched as Bobby threatened Dean with a spoon. Dean's grin was wicked and Sam knew he was probably better off not knowing what he had done.

"You better watch it boy," Bobby was saying. "I can still whoop your ass. I'll do it too."

Dean's grin widened. "Wanna try old man?"

Sam winced, fighting to not chuckle. He didn't see Bobby move but he heard the thwack of wood meeting flesh and Dean's yelp as he jumped back rubbing his arm.

"Now go see the table," Bobby said. "Good to see you up, Sam." Sam grinned and went to help Dean.

Sam's next little Hallmark moment was less fraught with emotional, macho tension. He had been ensconced in Bobby's chair, working through his math book around Rumsfeld who had decided Sam needed a companion in his daunting task. Mostly, it just meant he had to hold his arm at an odd angle to write around the large dog head now lying across his notebook. Sam didn't mind. Rumsfeld was good company and demanded very little in return. Sam was sure he could spare a moment for a belly rub between graphing equations.

He'd stolen his textbooks from his last school when he realized that he wouldn't have a chance to take them back anyway. He didn't really feel bad for it. He had decided, given that John was still AWOL, Dean had gone into training mode and refused to let Sam come join him for at least another two days, and Bobby was in the middle of reorganizing, which neither of the boys was invited to help with, he would at least try to stay caught up with his school work as best he could. He loathed being behind and trying to catch up around his father's crazy schedule.

He thought he might be able to cajole a ride out of Dean later. He'd like to go into town to the library. While Bobby's collection was impressive, it was heavily slanted towards things that went bump in the night and had little other information in it. Sam had found a stash of seventeenth century poetry once, tucked away in the corner under several large, heavy tomes, but he somehow doubted they would help in his current situation, nor could he see Bobby reacting well to him having found them. He wisely decided it best to pretend he had never seen a thing.

Sam was good at that. He could pretend he had never seen a lot of things. It was pretty much what got the Winchester's through their lives.

He wanted to research ways to make this whole thing easier. There had to be something out there. He couldn't have been the only person in the history of the world to have lost his voice. He knew there were manual languages, having learned the ASL alphabet at one of the early schools he attended. He'd been in third grade, he thought. He knew such a thing existed, but had no clue how to go about getting that information. He wanted to research what solutions other people had come up with.

Bobby had been busy upstairs. Every now and then Sam would hear the crash of a pile knocked over or the low irritated mutter of Bobby cussing under his breath. Invariably, Rumsfeld would jerk to attention and bark. Bobby would yell, "shut up ya daft dog," or something to that effect. Apparently Rumsfeld had been banished from helping as well. Sam might have gone up, except Bobby had threatened that if either boy laid so much as a finger on one of his books until he got them organized again, they'd both be cleaning car parts for a month.

Sam had cleaned car parts before. It was a dirty, oily job that left him tired and bored. He did it on occasion to help Bobby out when he needed it, but for the most part it was a pointless task. Everyone involved knew that except for some pretty specific things, they generally didn't need a thorough, fully detailed cleaning before they could be reused. They were just going to be a mess five minutes later anyway. And when Bobby set them the task, those parts had better be glistening.

It was the quiet that caught Sam's attention. Bobby had been alternately muttering and stomping all morning. Sam glanced up the stairs when he realized that he hadn't heard a sound in almost twenty minutes. Frowning, he set his book aside and was about to get up when Bobby clomped down the stairs.

Rumsfeld perked up and launched himself off the chair, nearly dislodging Sam's work from his lap. As Sam scrambled to keep from dropping anything, Bobby marched right up to Sam, ignoring the dog's attentions.

He stopped in front of the chair, hands on his hips and a book in one hand. Sam glanced at it, but the spine was facing away from him and Sam couldn't read the title from what he could make out of the cover between Bobby's fingers. Bobby looked down at Sam, studying him through narrowed eyes. Sam squirmed under the attention.

Finally Bobby spoke. "Dean said you want to postpone the search for a cure."

Sam rolled his eyes. Of course Dean wouldn't be able to let it go completely. Still, Sam nodded in a quick sharp motion, still not sure where this was going.

Bobby didn't look mad, or sad, or disappointed. Only thoughtful.

"Care to tell me why?"

Sam scrunched up his face, suddenly irritated. He couldn't _tell_ Bobby anything, and even if he could, he didn't understand what was happening. Was Bobby angry with him? Had he done something wrong? He'd barely moved all morning.

Bobby glanced back and snagged the notebook off the table behind him. He held it out towards Sam. It had the usual pen tucked into the spiral. Sam pulled it out and flipped to a mostly blank page. He glanced up at Bobby, then began to write.

 _I need to learn how to live with this. I told Dean, even if there's a cure to find, it could take months, years even. I can't just hide here for the rest of my life._

Bobby seemed to consider what Sam had written. "So this is about adapting?"

Sam nodded, still unsure what exactly Bobby was looking for.

"And it has nothing to do with the failed spells?"

Sam glanced down. _Maybe a little._

"You can't get anywhere if you don't try." Bobby still didn't sound even mildly reproachful. He was matter-of-fact.

Sam shook his head. _I know. But I_

Sam hesitated. "What?" Bobby wanted to know. "You what?"

 _I feel like I'm just stringing along on hope. I don't know how to,_ Here he scribbled through his writing. _I just…I want to know that if I can't be fixed, I can manage._

Bobby nodded. "Okay, then. This might help."

Bobby dropped the book he had been carrying into Sam's lap and turned to leave. As he walked towards the stairs, he called back, "And if I ever catch you saying you're broken again, I'll kick your ass."

Sam mock saluted him behind his back, but smiled. He lifted the book, flipping it over to read the cover. It was a book on sign language. Since when did Bobby have books on sign language? He flipped the cover opened and started to read.

When Dean found him an hour later and asked what he was doing, Sam grinned at him and held up the book, waving it under Dean's nose. Dean grabbed it, unable to tell what it was due to the close proximity and Sam's shaking it. His shoulders slumped when he read the title, but he smiled for Sam's sake. "This is great."

Sam heard the edge to his voice and his smile dropped, uncertain. He furrowed his eyebrows and cocked his head to the side a little.

"No, it's good." Dean perked up a little. "We can call people dirty names and they'll never know." Dean snickered.

Sam mirrored his expression. He didn't forget the frustrated defeat in Dean's expression when he realized what Sam was doing, but like with Bobby's poetry, he pretended he hadn't seen anything. They spent the rest of the afternoon looking up useful words in the book. By the end, Dean seemed almost as enthusiastic as Sam.

That night after dinner and clean up, as Sam was about to head to bed he stopped beside where Bobby was sitting on his couch with a newspaper and hugged him. Bobby stiffened then a tentative smile started to show. Sam pulled back and, with a careful, precise movement, shared the one word he had specifically set out to learn today.

'Thank you.'

Bobby cleared his throat and looked back at his paper, pretending he was not moved in the least. "Yeah. You're welcome. Best get to bed." He said it gruffly, but Sam grinned at him and they both knew Bobby was just as pleased as Sam.

As Sam lay in bed that night, he dared to hope for the first time that things might turn out okay.


	10. The Conversation

It was about three days later that Sam finally screwed up his courage enough to talk to Dean about the thing that had been worrying him the most lately. They had been practicing with Bobby's book and could now hold a rudimentary conversation, although it took time for both of them to think of the signs and process through what the other person said.

They were sitting on the bottom step of Bobby's porch taking a break from their sparing. Sam had been cleared for training the day before by both Bobby and Dean and they were taking it slow. Sam chafed at the pace, but he understood he couldn't rush Dean's progression from mother hen to pain in the ass big brother after being sick. It was a slow transformation, one which was marked by the steady progression of Dean's growing confidence that Sam would not in fact break into a hundred tiny pieces.

Sam hated this more than actually being sick. It took Dean ages to finally step back and let Sam go full tilt again. While Sam understood that he had recently been sick, he was fine. He would be perfectly capable of sparing for the full time. He might not get any laps in afterward, but he wanted there to be more than just short spurts of activity. Like the afternoon John had made them run, Sam wanted to just throw himself into something purely physical. It didn't have to be running or sparing. He'd get out and climb every tree on the perimeter of Bobby's land if he had to.

Sam brushed his hand along the back of his neck and up into his hair, trying to quell his nerves. He turned to Dean, eyes serious. When Dean was finally looking back at him, he strung two words together slowly.

'Where's Dad?'

Dean squinted at the signs, brow furrowed, trying to piece together what Sam had said.

"Dad's-"

Sam reached over and laid a finger on Dean's lips, looking pointedly toward his hands. Dean made a face. He raised his hands and made the sign for Dad and then for away. He was struggling a bit with the language. More so than Sam.

Sam rolled his eyes. He knew their dad wasn't there. He wanted to know where he had gone.

'Where?' Sam drew down his eyebrows, trying to convey his curiosity and exasperation all in one motion.

"I don't have the signs, Sam."

Sam nodded. It was going to take time. Dean seemed to be reading Sam's signs better than he was forming them for himself, which was a matter of practice, but they both had the important parts of the conversation down. Sam could tell Dean basic things without having to go find a pencil and paper, while Dean could understand and respond for the most part. That's all they really needed.

When he didn't continue, Sam jabbed Dean in the side. Dean let out a deep breath.

"He went to Kansas."

Sam frowned in confusion. 'Why?'

"I'm not sure. He said there was something urgent he had to take care of."

So John had a hunt and he didn't feel like hanging around his broken son. Sam didn't sign any of that. Even if he had known how to, he knew it would have made things worse. But it still stung.

'Say-when-come-home?' Sam winced at the rough syntax. He had gathered, from what he read, that ASL dropped a lot of the in between words, the prepositions and such unless it was to emphasize meaning, but it had been lacking in any grammatical instruction. He knew he was butchering it, but he also knew Dean would understand.

Dean shook his head. "You know how these things go, Sam. He could be home tonight, it could be next week."

'Two now,' Sam signed.

Dean tried to puzzle out what he meant by that but shook his head. "I don't understand, Sam."

Sam huffed. He didn't know all the words he needed. He wanted to say that it had been almost two weeks since they'd seen him last. He knew three of those words.

He frowned and tried again. 'Dad away two…' Sam scrunched up his face, trying to remember if he'd learned the word for weeks. 'W-E-E-K-S' He spelled out the last word, having given up. He knew day and night, but otherwise his vocabulary of time words was almost non-existent. Maybe that would be next on his list.

"Dad's only been gone a week and a half."

Sam gave Dean a stern look. That was still a long time for him to be gone without checking in. Unless he'd been checking in with Dean while Sam had been down with the flu.

Sam held his right hand up, pinky and thumb extended and mimicked holding a phone. He had no idea what the sign for telephone was, but again Dean was likely to understand his meaning.

"Yeah, a couple of times. Not recently though. Said he'd be out of contact for no more than a week. That was three days ago. He's fine, Sam."

Of course he was. This was John Winchester. He'd be fine until the day he learned he wasn't immortal. Sam wondered if he would bother coming back for them. Of course, Dean was nineteen. He could get himself a car and go meet up with their father. In fact, John might ask him to do just that.

Sam knew that John had been planning on giving Dean the Impala for his next birthday. He'd actually been expecting it to happen when Dean turned eighteen, but he got the impression that John didn't want to hand over the car until Dean had proven he could handle it. He mentally rolled his eyes. Between John and Dean, one might think that car actually was a baby. Not that Sam wanted to see anything happen to it, it was the closest he'd ever had to a home at any point in his life. It was his one constant beyond Dean. He still didn't see how those two could personify a car that much. As much as Sam loved her, she was a car. She was metal and working parts – a moving home, not a person.

He'd never say such things to his brother.

Sam drew in, the afternoon sun had gone behind a cloud and there was a nip to the air. He was only wearing a t-shirt since they had been training and the cool air was giving him chill bumps.

What if John didn't want Sam anymore?

Sam looked over at Dean, who was still watching him from the corner of his eye in case he signed something else. Sam wanted to say something. There was a churning in his gut at the thought of John not returning, of leaving him behind.

'Think Dad come…' he gestured around at the salvage yard.

Dean leaned turned back to him fully. "Course he will. Why wouldn't he."

Sam shrugged. He stood up and gestured back towards the dirt ring they had drawn just beyond the porch. Dean leaned back so that he was staring up into the sky. "Nah. I think I'm done. Besides, Bobby said not to keep you out here more than a couple of hours. Probably time we went back in."

Sam made a face. He was fine. F-I-N-E. Fine. It had been the flu. A short bought of it at that. He wasn't dying of terminal cancer. He spied a pebble laying on the ground and stooped to pick it up. When he straightened, he made sure Dean was still reclining before flinging it at him so that it would ping straight between his eyes. He didn't put much force behind it, but he still didn't hang around to watch what happened next.

As he took off through the yard, he heard Dean leap to his feet. "You little bitch! I'm going to skin you alive."

Sam kept running, grinning.

When they burst back through Bobby's front door, Bobby glanced around from in the kitchen area. He took one look at them and shook his head. "You track that dirt through my house and you'll be scrubbing the floors," was all he told them. Sam grinned. He felt better for having run some of his energy off. He poked Dean in the ribs, ducked his brother's wide swing, and darted up the stairs to claim the shower before Dean could get there.

That evening, he decided he could at least fix one of his problems and decided to find Bobby. The older man had been unbelievably patient with him this entire time, always willing to answer Sam's questions. He had even taken to signing and talking at the same time. Sam rarely understood much of it, but it did help to see someone else signing. He had a feeling that was going to be a rare thing for him. He was using it to speak, but he technically didn't need it to understand someone else. It made his brain hurt to realize he was technically having a conversation in two languages at once.

Sam approached Bobby carefully. He and Dean were out on the porch watching Rumsfeld chase something between the cars. Sam thought it might have been a rabbit, but it was getting rather late in the year for them to be out. Probably just a really fat squirrel,

He brought his notebook with him, a message already written out. He found that helped when he was asking involved questions. If he got out at least the first part of what he wanted to say before he was actually in front of the person, he didn't have to wait as long. He sat on the top step beside Bobby and hesitantly held out the pad. Bobby took it from him and glanced down.

 _Would you teach me some of the grammar? I've been through the book, but it doesn't really talk about that. I want to do it properly._

Dean wandered over from where he'd been leaning on the railing and read the note over Bobby's shoulder, ruffling Sam's hair in the process. Sam batted his hand away and glared up at him.

"Aw man," Dead said, looking at Sam, then Bobby. "There's grammar too?"

"Course there is. What did you think?"

When Dean shrugged, Bobby continued, "ASL is a separate language technically. It has its own syntax and grammatical structure."

"But, do we have to?"

Bobby shrugged. "Not really. There's plenty who use a sort of bastardize mix of English and ASL, and most people can make themselves understood either way, but it's certainly not the same thing."

"So why learn one over the other?"

Sam pinched Dean on the knee. He had his own questions here. "Ow! What was that for?"

Bobby rolled his eyes. "Yes, Sam. I'll teach you what I know." He craned his neck back to look at Dean. "As far as your question goes, it's a cultural thing more often than not."

"Cultural?"

"Yes, Dean. Cultural. ASL is primarily the language of the deaf. There are plenty who base their identity around that. In the Deaf community it is a matter of pride to use actual ASL. It's typically those who come to it later in life, who aren't taught from childhood or whose native language is English that use the pidgin version. There are all sort of nuances. Do you want a lecture on that, or can I help Sam now?"

Dean looked down, but didn't quite look abashed. "Whatever. How do you know all this, anyway?" He narrowed his eyes. "You aren't deaf are you Bobby?"

"What kind of stupid question is that?" Bobby demanded. "Do I seem deaf to you?"

"No, I –"

"Don't answer that question," Bobby said. Sam could tell he was trying to keep from grinning. "No, Dean. My old man was though. Grew up on it." He shrugged. And Dean was too embarrassed to ask any more questions. Instead, he pushed past them and sat down in the dirt at the bottom of the stair facing them so he could see.


	11. The Homecoming

Sam was upstairs helping Bobby when he heard it. Bobby had finally given in, unable to both hold up the swaying stacks and shelve at the same time, and allowed Sam to come up and help put his books in some kind of order. What order that might be eluded Sam entirely. As best he could tell they were arranged alphabetically within some strange genre system. For example, the book of Hans Christian Anderson fairytales had not been shelved with what Sam broadly considered the myths and legends, but rather in the middle of a shelf that primarily dealt with dangerous beasts. Exorcisms apparently didn't belong with either the bible or demonology, because it now resided between a handwritten journal and a tall, skinny book about some Japanese monster.

Sam was holding up a second stack of journals when he heard the dull roar of an engine and the popping crunch of gravel as a car pulled into the driveway. Sam would know that sound anywhere. He didn't dash out the door like Dean had. He waited patiently for Bobby to take the last book from him and shelve it before he made a mad rush towards the front of the house.

He checked himself just inside the door. In all the time John had been gone, he hadn't once asked about Sam. Sam knew this because he had taken to the unfortunate habit of listening to Dean's phone calls with the man. He knew his father was coming home hoping to find him speaking again.

Sam squared his shoulders and opened the door. John would find out soon enough. By the time he got out on the porch, John was halfway up the stairs.

"…been helping Bobby all morning," Dean was saying.

John looked up at Sam and smiled at him. Sam smiled back and hurried down the stairs to hug his father. He was more than a little self-conscious about the enthusiastic greeting, but judging by the arm draped around Dean's shoulder, he hadn't been the only one to be glad to see John home.

Sam relaxed when John's other arm snaked across his shoulders. He hadn't realized that he had been worried for John, not just about his reaction. He was glad to see him safe and whole again. John squeezed him gently and Sam let the hug fall.

They stood there semi-awkward until Dean let his natural need to talk smooth things over. "I see Bobby didn't actually use you for ritual ingredients," he said to Sam.

Sam stuck his tongue out and turned back towards the house. Together the three made their way inside where Bobby was waiting for them.

"John," Bobby said. Sam could hear a note of disapproval in his voice, but wasn't quite sure why. "Safe trip?"

John nodded. "Went a lot smoother than I thought it would."

"Did you find what you were looking for?"

John made a face and dropped the arm around Dean's shoulders. "It was there all right. But I didn't get any closer than I have been."

Bobby nodded. Sam thought he looked a little disappointed, in John rather than in his news.

"Boys," John said. "Why don't you go get washed up for dinner, I stopped and got us something on the way in." Sam and Dean shared a look, but dutifully headed upstairs.

At the top Sam stopped Dean with a hand on his chest.

'Dad know?' Sam wanted to know. He technically already knew the answer, but he wanted to hear Dean say it. He had to know what he was walking into.

Dean glanced over Sam. 'Know what?' He replied in kind. Apparently he didn't want the others downstairs to know what they were talking about. Or else he had suddenly gotten very studious.

Sam glared at Dean. He didn't get to pull his deliberate stupid thing today. Sam crossed his arms and waited.

Dean sighed. 'Not tell yet.'

Sam felt the weight back a hundred times. It was constricting in his chest. John didn't know. 'All be fine.' Dean assured him, then headed for the bathroom. Sam was more than sure it would not.

When they came back down the stairs, Sam got the impression they had missed another furtive argument between the two older men. John was setting out pizza boxes from ?, one of Dean's favorite joints. Bobby was pulling down glasses in the kitchen, letting them thunk a bit harder than necessary onto the counter. Both were quite intentionally not looking at one another.

Sam ducked his head and grabbed a stack of plates to set out while Dean went to go help fill the glasses before Bobby broke something. Sam realized immediately his mistake, but fortunately John seemed too preoccupied with his irritation at whatever had happened between him and Bobby to say anything much beyond a grunted thanks in Sam's direction. Once the plates had been laid out he ran to the kitchen to grab his glass, half in an attempt to get away from being alone with John and half to ensure it was only milk he was drinking.

Finally they all settled down around the table together. The pizza boxes circulated in a dimly heavy silence. Dean finally found the courage to say, "So your hunt went well?"

John grunted. "Really wasn't so much a hunt, but yeah it went well. Didn't even get too banged up in the process."

Dean laughed.

He was the only one, although John did smile a little.

"How did things go here? Did you keep up with your training?"

"Yes, sir. Except for that week Sam was sick."

Sam kicked Dean under the table. He had hoped John need never know about that. He had never reckoned with Dean's big mouth in the equation.

"Sick?" John turned towards Sam. "Are you okay?"

Sam nodded.

"He's fine now. It was just a bout of the flu, but neither Bobby nor I wanted him out in the cold after he'd been running that fever."

Sam ducked, fighting down a blush.

John nodded in approval. "Good, but you didn't let it slide too long, I hope. I need you both in top shape."

"No sir, of course not."

"Any other news?" John asked carefully.

Dean shook his head, swallowing his bite of pizza so that it choked him and he had to drink down half his glass of water. Finally, he managed to croak, "no, sir."

John turned his attention back to Sam. "No change at all?"

Sam shook his head. John leaned back in his chair with a sigh. If Sam didn't know any better, he'd swear John was disappointed in them. But they hadn't done anything wrong. It wasn't their fault if there hadn't been anything to find.

The conversation stuttered to a halt again. They finished their pizza in silence, all the while John seemed to sink further and further into a mood. The pizza sat heavy in Sam's stomach.

When he'd finished the piece on his plate, he pushed it away. He caught Bobby's eye. Bobby was a bit of a stickler for dinner table manners. Most of the time he agreed there was no one to impress, but if they were all sat together at the table they were expected to at least be polite. It was one of John's rules too. Something about teaching them proper respect.

'I finished.' Sam signed. He needed to get out of this room. 'Go now?'

Bobby nodded. "Course, go on. Just put your plate in the sink."

"Sam," Dean said carefully.

Sam gave him a half smile. 'I'm fine.' He signed as he collected his plate. He made a quick sign of thanks towards John, dropped his plate in the sink, and retreated to his shared bedroom.

Behind him he left a wake of silence. He pause at the top of the stairs just long enough to hear John's low snarled, "What the Hell was that about?" before he slipped in and closed the door.

Not that the closed door made any difference. He heard the roaring argument downstairs. He closed his eyes and covered his head with his pillow, but still he could hear them.

"What do you mean, sign language?"

Dean's low murmur was punctuated with, "I will not calm down until someone explains what is going on around here," from John. "I left you to look for a cure, not go on a little educational holiday."

Dean's voice came again. This time it was almost legible through the floorboards.

"A deal? You made a deal? You mean you gave in to your little brother because he made sad eyes at you instead of keeping him on task."

Sam cringed, laying there.

"My job is to help Sam," Dean's voice had finally gotten loud enough to hear as well.

"Help him? How does this help him? Cure him so he can talk."

"Winchester!" Bobby roared. "Listen to yourself. That boy up there is dealing with a lot of shit. Both your children are. He made a solid argument. Dean and I agreed. We're still looking, but that's your son up there. I'd have thought you would want what's best for him. Not that anyone could tell by watching you."

John's voice went low. Sam lost track of the words, but he didn't have to work hard to imagine what they would be.

"Don't you dare, Winchester. I love both these boys like they're my own. Heaven forbid we don't find anything. What then? You want Sam to sit in a corner for the rest of his life?"

"He. Can't. Hunt. Like. This." John shouted each and every word forcefully projected.

There was silence. Sam felt his stomach turning. Of course. That's what John was concerned about.

There was a loud bang before Bobby said, "Who cares about your damn crusade! Sam needs you. Not vengeance. Not the hunt. He needs a father who cares enough to stick around and deal with what's happening."

"And I suppose you think you're the man for the job. Think you can turn my children against me?"

"Dad!" Dean said in alarm.

Enough was enough. Sam jumped to his feet, flinging the pillow to the floor. One way or another, he was going to get a say in this. It was his life after all. He had a right to live it any way he pleased.

Before he made it to the door, Bobby was yelling again. "Get out of my house. Now."

"Bobby," Dean could just barely be heard.

"You heard me you sack of shit. Get. Out. Of. My. House."

There was a scraping of chairs. He could hear Dean saying something. Even John sounded subdued.

Bobby was not. "The boys are welcome to stay. But you aren't. I don't ever want to see your face here again." Sam hesitated at the door when silence descended downstairs.

There was the cock of a shotgun. Sam leaped forward again. He had no desire to see his family pulled apart over this. Just as he made the top of the stairs, he collided with Dean who was coming up them. Sam grabbed Dean's shirt to keep him from falling backwards down the flight.

Dean was breathing hard. "Come on. We have to go. Grab your stuff."

Dean ushered him back down the hall. They flung their things into their duffels and slammed back down the stairs. As soon as he saw them coming, John turned and left out the door.

"You ever come back, I'll load your ass full of buckshot, you hear?" Bobby shouted after him.

Dean gave him a quick hug. "Sorry about this, Bobby. He's just-"

"Being an ass. It's not your fault. Don't you dare apologize for the man. Better get going. Much as I want you to stay, he's still your Daddy."

Dean looked relieved and fled.

Sam approached him. He held out the book that Bobby had given him on sign language. He knew he might be all over the place and he wouldn't want to ruin one of Bobby's books.

Bobby pushed it back to him. "You hang on to that. It's yours now."

Sam flung himself at Bobby. There was so much he wanted to say, but he just didn't have the words. When he straightened back up, he signed, 'Thank you.'

Bobby winked at him. "You're welcome, son. And you're always welcome here if you need a place to stay."

Sam flashed him a quick, tight grin before turning towards the door. He squared his shoulders and went outside. "Sam, move your ass," John called. "We're leaving."

Sam quickened his pace. When he got to the car, he gave a backwards glance. Bobby had Rumsfeld by the collar to keep him from bounding down the stairs. Sam waved and sank into the car. He'd barely shut the door before the Impala was nearly spinning out on the gravel drive.

The three sat in silence as they turned onto the pavement and put more and more distance between them and Booby's house. 

* * *

And that's where I'm going to leave this one. I hope you've enjoyed! I'm planning on posting another in the near future as a sort of sequel. It will be much closer to my original idea of being a series of non-chronological shots collected together. This one kind of got away from. I already have several other moments from the same 'verse that I want to post as companions to this.

Thanks to all the lovely folks who favorited/followed. And a very special thank you to those of you who reviewed, particularly Sallyannerenee and gallifreyan-halliwell. I would like to present you with cookies for being such faithful reviewers. I love getting to read your feedback every time! To the guest who enjoyed Frankenstein, I love it when life works out that way. And Rye Scop wins the award for finding the biggest editing mistake in this fic.   



End file.
